
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf IS Y'/ 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




















$ 



THE 


WHITE CHURCH 



By a. C. PIERSON 




OC VC 


„ NOV i2, 1887 

Or C-. 


CIKCINNATI 


STANDARD PUBLISHING CO. 

1887 


1 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by the 
STANDARD PUBLISHING CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter I. 

Rising Branch I 

Chapter II. 

The Shadow in the Old Lane 1 1 

Cpiapter III. 

A Private Interview 20 

Chapter IV. 

A Glimpse at Two Homes 31 

Chapter V. 

Craggy Hill 42 

Chapter VI. 

Opposition to Uncle Joe 48 

Chapter VH. 

The Morning Cometh 57 

. Chapter VIH. 

And also the Night 66 

Chapter IX. 

Two Pieces of Strategy. . . .‘ 77 

Chapter X. 

An Unusual Visitor 90 

Chapter XI. 

Uncle Joe Again loi 

Chapter XH. 

A Night Wanderer 112 

Chapter XHI. 

An Italian Story 117 


iii. 


IV. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter XIV. 

A New Disaster 124 

Chapter XV. 

The Flight 135 

Chapter XVI. 

In the Conway Cottage Again 141 

Chapter XVII. 

A Godless Town 152 

Chapter XVIII. 

A Shot that Missed 169 

Chapter XIX. 

Mr. Sarcott Surprised 175 

Chapter XX 

The Trial 180 

Chapter XXI. 

Uncle Joe’s Sacrifice 193 

Chapter XXII. 

In the Conway Cottage Again 205 

Chapter XXIII. 

Uncle Joe’s Removal 215 

Chapter XXIV. 

A Revelation 221 

Chapter XXV. 

The Mob 233 

Chapter XXVI. 

The White Church, Eurilda, and Uncle Joe ; 240 

Chapter XXVII. 

Conclusion 249 


THE WHITE CHURCH * 


CHAPTER I. 

RISING BRANCH. 

It was a sultry afternoon in August. Not a clourl 
shut off the rays of the sun. The cricket sang in the 
fencerows ; and the homeless bumble bee, whose nest 
in the stubble had been turned under by the plow, 
buzzed aimlessly through the air. Now and then the 
hum of a threshing-machine could be heard afar off. 
All things wore an after-harvest look. Ricks of straw 
stood like brown giants in the barnyards or solitary in 
the midst of reaped fields. The dust lay thick in the 
roads, and covered the lowest rails so deep that the 
harmless garter-snake left a trail when she crept 
through. 

The little stream called Rising Branch, from which 
the whole neighborhood took its name, was nearly dry. 
Below the mill-dam, at the foot of Craggy Hill, it was 
a mere thread of water running in a narrow gully, 
whose edges were tramped to a thick mud by cattle. 

There was but little need of the rude bridge over 
which old Joe Sales was riding on his way to the vil- 
lage. His bridle was thrown loosely on the neck 

* Copyright, 1885, by Standard Publishing Company. 


2 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


of his old gray horse, which walked leisurely along 
with head down, while the master, with both hands 
buried deep in the pockets of his baggy trousers, 
seemed in a deep study. 

“How d’ye do. Uncle Joe?” shouted a barefooted 
urchin who had come out of a stubble-field just ahead, 
and was perched upon a rail-fence. 

“How are ye, Sandy?” answered the old man 
without stopping his horse. “ Where is ye r father ? ” 

“Ter town,” replied the lad, waving his hand in 
the direction of the village. The old man’s eyes fell 
to the ground again, and he passed on. The boy 
sat watching him for awhile, and then, dropping to the 
ground, scampered back upon the road. 

“ Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe,” muttered the old man to 
himself. “ I am Uncle Joe to pretty nigh every body, 
and ef the Lord spares me I ’ll be more than a Uncle 
Joe to this neighborhood yet.” 

The old man uttered this remark with the sense of one 
who has a profound thought at heart. A casual ob- 
server might have detected a gleam of inspiration in 
the smile that played on his wrinkled face ; but with 
the ejaculation “Well! ” accompanied with a sigh, he 
uttered no further sound until he reached a house at 
the edge of a village. This house, a long and narrow 
one, was of the variety known in that neighborhood as 
“cast and plaster.” It was built of logs and covered 
on the outside with coarse mortar, then whitewashed. 
Its side faced the road, and creeping vines almost cov- 
ered a low porch that extended the entire length. 

While Uncle Joe, for so we shall now call him, was 
hitching his horse, a woman appeared at the gate. She 
was apparently in middle life. Her black hair was 


RISING BRANCH. 


3 


combed back from a high forehead. Her eyes, though 
as black as her hair, were very mild. Around her 
mouth a few faint wrinkles were visible, suggesting that 
her life had not been all sunshine. She was clad in a 
plain alpaca, a little rusty for the wear, but perfectly 
clean. 

The widow reached out her hand to meet Uncle 
Joe^s, who replied to her salutation with: “Well es 
usual, Sister Conway, ’ceptin’ a little tech of rheuma- 
tiz thet I felt after diggin’ that ditch twixt me and 
Elder Tribbey. It war hard and dry enough till we 
came to the swamp, and there it war wet in spite o’ 
the drouth we’re hevin’.” 

Uncle Joe had reached the porch, where a girl, 
the likeness of her mother, set for him a chair. He 
took off his hat, placed it on the porch beside him, 
wiped his bald head and continued to speak : 

“I thought I would stop in a spell, fur I heerd as 
how your Jake war over to Hanaford yesterday, and 
I allowed he had some news of the new railroad. 
Sandy Warner told me yesterday thet it war a settled 
thing, but all I could get out of him was that he heerd 
’em say so up at the blacksmith shop.” 

“I guess Sandy is right. Uncle Joe,” replied the 
widow. “Jacob learned over at Hanaford that the 
subscription books were closed there, and you know 
that sufficient stock was taken at Carterville, the other 
end of the line, in a few months after the project was 
started. The village here is just half-way, and Mr. 
Sarcott says it will be an important station.” 

“ I heerd he war goin’ to build a mill, if the road 
kem,” said Uncle Joe. 

‘‘Yes, indeed, more than a mill. Uncle Joe,” cried 


4 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


a strapping boy who entered at this moment, ‘‘a grist- 
mill, a factory, and if the company can get the land, 
they may build some shops here, too.” Jake sat down 
on a big chair, all out of breath. 

‘‘What kind of a factory es it a goin’ to be, Jake?” 
asked the old man, slowly. 

“A woolen factory, they sa)^” replied Jake, “and 
that will bring people to Rising Branch and give the 
town a boom.” 

“Jake ! ” said Mrs. Conway, in a tone of reproof. 

“ Oh ! I forgot a little, mother, that ’s all ; these slang 
words will stick to a fellow so.” 

“Guess you larnt that over to Hanaford at the 
railroad, didn’t ye, Jake?” remarked Uncle Joe slyly. 
Jake was silent, and in a moment the old man added: 
‘ ‘ That ’s jest the kind of freight the railroad will bring in. 
Sister Conway, but that is n’t sayin’ as thet I ’m opposed 
to it. Curses likes to keep company with blessin’s, 
even if blessin’s do n’t consent, and they both are alius 
found purty close together. We all want the road, 
but what I am in fur is to pervide agin the evils it ’ll 
bring, and then we can enjoy its good.” 

Jake turned to the old man with a look of surprise, 
but before he could speak Mrs. Conway replied : 
“ Why, Uncle Joe, you don’t think the road is going 
to be as bad a thing as that, do you ? ” 

“I haven’t said as thet it war a bad thing. Sister 
Conway,” replied Uncle Joe. “I said that it war likely 
to bring evils, and we must prepare for ’em.” 

“Why, Uncle Joe, it is nT the cholera that’s a 
coming?” The speaker was Eurilda, the widow’s 
daughter. 

“ Qf course not, of course not, ’Rildy,” and the 


RISING BRANCH. 


5 


old man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke; ‘‘but let me 
tell ye, child, that while cholery may kill the body, a 
growin’ town is likely to develop evils that are worse, 
fur they kill the soul. I heerd Brother Scammon 
sayin’ in a sermon down at the old meetin’ house last 
Sunday that wherever ther’ war soil, both weeds and 
flowers war sure to grow. He war a’ quotin’ it from 
some old poet, I believe. Anyhow it is so.” 

‘ ‘ So you believe that the railroad will improve the 
village soil, do you. Uncle Joe?” said the widow, 
smiling. 

“Exactly so,” said Uncle Joe, with great em- 
phasis upon the first word, “and we must get the 
handles in our hoes to fight the weeds.” No reply 
followed this last remark, and both Jake and Eurilda 
looked puzzled. 

Uncle Joe paid no attention to their mute appeals 
for explanation, but continued to address himself to 
their mother. 

“Sister Conway, I am thinkin’ thet since this rail- 
road matter hez taken sech a turn, an’ is likely to be a 
sure thing, thet the question of buildin’ our new church 
ought to be shook up a little livelier. A new house 
we ’ve got to have : the old one is nigh about past 
mendin’. Some of the brethren want to build on the 
old spot, seein’ thet the buryin’-ground is there, but 
my choice hez alius been the village. The young folks 
is centered around here mostly, and we hev got to 
build fur them.” 

“Father’s grave is there,” exclaimed both Jake and 
Eurilda at once. 

Mrs. Conway remained silent ; a handkerchief 
was pressed to her face; and Uncle Joe knew full well 


6 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


what memories his allusion to the old church had called 
up. 

“I know, Sister Conway,” continued he, “ thet it 
seems kind o’ sad to you to think o’ movin’ the old 
church. Bro. Conway were born into the kingdom 
inside its logs, one may say, and it war his home fur 
many a year. But will the new church benefit the 
dead? Won’t they sleep as sound as they ever sl-ept 
while the instrument of the Lord hez only taken its 
presence from them because it hez found a field ripe 
fur the harvest? ” 

The widow nodded assent, but could say nothing. 

“Sister Conway,” resumed the old man, “ hev I 
not them thet I love lyin’ in the old buryin’-ground ? 
Isn’t my Josie thar ? He would a been a young man 
now. And where ’s my William that was drownded in 
the dam below Craggy Hill ; to say nothin’ of Susie, 
who war married long afore Jake here war born ?” 

“I know it, Uncle Joe,” was all the widow could 

say. 

Uncle Joe kept on. He grew more earnest. “ But, 
Sister Conway, we need a church here at the village. 
We must build fur the livin’. Now ’s the time for us 
few Christians in the neighborhood to fix a center of 
influence thet will stand agin the evils of a growin’ 
town. Risin’ Branch village is goin’ to grow, no doubt, 
and unless we who profess to foller the Master see to 
it, it ’ll not grow very fur in grace.” 

Uncle Joe had arisen at the close of this remark, 
and had placed his hat on his head. 

The widow’s voice arrested the step he had taken 
toward the door. 

“I know,” she began in a voice that now betrayed 


RISING BRANCH. 


7 


no emotion, ‘‘that there is force in what you say, 
Uncle Joe, and it was not wholly past sorrows that 
made me weep. My husband’s grave is indeed at the 
old church, and it would seem strange to me to go to 
morning worship without pausing after it was over to 
look' at the spot or to lay a flower there. I have reason 
enough to want the church here at the village.” She 
glanced significantly at Jake and Eurilda. “ But, Uncle 
Joe, I fear there will be something harder to overcome 
than the sentiments of some of the brethren.” 

Uncle Joe opened his eyes very wide. “Why, 
what. Sister Conway?” 

“ Mr. Sarcott ! ” calmly answered the widow. 

“Sarcott, Sarcott,” ejaculated Uncle Joe. “Why, 
I know thet he ’s an infidel, an’ it ’s a pity.” 

“And he owns all the land for a half-mile around 
the village, except my little piece here,” said Mrs. 
Conway, cutting off Uncle Joe^s remark. 

“Thet’s a fact, thet ’s a fact,” said the old man, 
half in reply and half to himself He stood meditating 
for a moment, then said, “I’m goin’ to talk with 
James Sarcott myself, and thet before this day is past. 
Now it is gettin’ toward evenin’, and I will have to be 
a huntin’ him up.” 

With a very decided air the old man started for the 
door. He strode rather than walked ; as if he were 
making toward some object that had irritated him by 
trying to escape. 

When he had gone, Jake said: “I do not see why 
Uncle Joe is afraid of the railroad’s spoiling Rising 
Branch. One would think, to hear him talk, that there 
can be no enterprise without wickedness. Do you 
understand him, mother?” 


8 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Mrs. Conway replied: “I think I do, Jacob, and I 
think he speaks the truth. The godlessness of Rising 
Branch is a matter of remark even now ; there has never 
been a church nearer to it than the one at Craggy 
Hill”— 

“That is three miles away,” interrupted Eurilda. 

Mrs. Conway finished, — “and a greater activity in our 
village life without some restraining, or rather guiding, 
force may be no desirable boon.” 

“Mr. Sarcott never wanted a church here,” said 
Eurilda. 

“He won’t sell any land for one now, I ’ll bet,” 
added Jake. 

Mrs. Conway cast a look of reproof at the careless 
boy, who tried to turn it aside with ; ‘ ‘ Oh, I forgot 
again, mother.” 

His mother noticed the slang no further, but said : 
“People dislike the presence of standing rebukes to 
their ways of life, children.” 

Both Jake and his sister looked doubtful about the 
meaning of this remark, but their mother ventured no 
explanation. 

In the meantime Uncle Joe Sales had reached the 
village store, in front of which he again hitched his 
horse and dismounted. Rising Branch village, to dis- 
tinguish it from the neighborhood which bore the same 
name, was generally called the “village.” It stood on 
a rise of land that sloped toward the stream before 
spoken of The road crossed the stream again beyond 
the village by a bridge similar to that over which Uncle 
Joe had come. 

At this point the railroad from Hanaford was to 
touch Rising Branch, and was to follow the course of 


RISING BRANCH, 


9 


the stream down the valley to Carterville. A store, a 
blacksmith shop, and a half-dozen houses formed the 
nucleus around which was to grow a “big town ” when 
the railroad came. 

A general air of listlessness pervaded the place ; the 
blacksmith shop was closed and the smith himself, a 
burly fellow in blue overalls, and with a great quid of 
tobacco in his mouth, sat on an empty sugar barrel in 
front of the store, eyeing the movements of Uncle Joe. 

The latter paid back his nod of recognition with: 
“How d’ ye do, Robert? Out o’ work to-day?” 

“Yes,” said the smith, “ I am out o’ the old shop 
for awhile, too. I ’m goin’ onto the road Monday. 
When we get the old smoker through here I won’t 
have ter lay idle more nor half my time.” The smith 
spoke this in a drawling tone that suggested that his 
compulsory idleness was not a grievous yoke. 

Uncle Joe replied: “I hope not, Robert; I hope 
not.” 

“Wish he’d call me Bob. I don’t want to be 
Roberted,” growled the smith to the storekeeper, who 
had come to the door. 

But Uncle Joe was too far away to hear. He had 
not entered the store, but was walking rapidly toward 
a large, white house : the finest one in the village. 

Arthur C. Pierson. 



CHAPTER IL 


THE SHADOW IN THE OLD LANE. 

The blacksmith remained sitting on the sugar-barrel, 
with his quid rolling from one cheek to the other and 
keeping time with his eyes, which glanced up and down 
the road alternately. He had cut off about a foot of 
the chines of the barrel with his jack-knife, and, for 
want of other amusement, was drumming the side with 
his heel. 

Both quid and eyes came to a halt as the latter 
rested upon Jake Conway, coming slowly toward him. 

Jake carried in his hand two pieces of iron, which 
the smith no sooner saw than he exclaimed : 

“That everlastin’ clevis agin! I ’ve welded it a 
dozen times this summer if I hev once.” 

Jake caught the remark, and replied : 

“Now, what ’s the use of talking that way. Bob 
Loomis ? You know that you have never mended this 
clevis but twice before, and if you had half done it the 
last time, it would not need mending now.” 

Bob did not resent the saucy reply, but, sliding down 
from the barrel, which he overturned and kicked into 
the road, he said : 


XI 


12 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“ Well, fetch it along to the shop. It ’s better than 
doin’ nothin’ ; but let me tell ye, Jake, that it are pesky 
few clevises that I expect to mend in Risin’ Branch any 
more. ” 

Jake looked astonished ; from childhood he had 
known Bob, and knew that a current saying in Rising 
Branch was: “ If Bob Loomis ever leaves town, it will 
be to go to the graveyard.” Bob held the village, even 
with its diminutive size, to be a place of much more 
importance than the surrounding country, and always 
spoke of himself and the remaining inhabitants as ‘ ^ us 
town fellers ” — an expression that implied contempt 
for the unfortunates whose lot forbade their residence in 
the “hub” of the neighborhood wheel. 

“ Mebbe ye do n’t believe it,” continued the smith, 
noticing Jake’s look of incredulity, “ but it ’s a fact ; if 
ye break this clevis again, boy, ye ’ll be likely ter mend 
it yourself.” 

“ Why, what are you going to do. Bob ? ” said Jake 
at length. 

They had arrived at the shop, and the smith, with- 
out answering Jake’s question, went to the back part, 
where he took from a corner a shovel that had evi- 
dently just received a new handle. 

“See this, Jake,” said he, shaking the tool before 
the face of the puzzled boy ; “I hev just put a new 
handle in this shovel for my own speshul benerfit. I 
am a goin’. onto the road.” 

“When?” 

“ Purty soon ; right away, this fall.” 

“Well, what are you going to do with that 
shovel ? ” 


THE SHADOW IN THE OLD LANE. 1 3 

Shovel gravel, ye ninny; I ’m goin’ ter work on 
the grade. ” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Jake, “you mean the new road. 
I thought you meant on the road over at Hanaford. ” 
“Well, I would say ! ” remarked Bob, with a look 
of contempt. “ Yer must be a gittin’ on amazin’ fast 
with them preacher studies o’ yourn. What would a 
feller do with a shovel on the road over at Hanaford? ” 
“ Well, I guess the section hands work with shov- 
els,” replied Jake, rather nettled. 

“ Now, do n’t get mad,” said Bob, seeing the blood 
mount to Jake’s face; “ye ’ve got ter carry yerself 
mild, old boy, if yer a goin’ inter this gospel business,” 
Jake felt uncomfortable in the presence of Bob, but 
far more so at the allusions. On most occasions the 
smith would have pushed his advantage, for he lost no 
opportunity to provoke Jake, that he might find ground 
for a fling at his “preacher studies.” But now the 
desire to impart the news of what he called a “ lift ” led 
him to a conciliatory manner. 

He kindled a fire in the forge, while Jake, looking 
impatient, sat down upon an empty nail-keg. 

“Hate ter have fun poked at ye, do n’t ye, Jake? 
But, land sakes, boy, I war only funnin’. Look out ! 
I ’m goin’ ter weld her agin,” cried he, taking the 
clevis red-hot from the fire. As he raised his hammer, 
he added : “ This are a sweet job fur a bilin’ hot day.” 

The work was soon done ; the fire ceased to glow ; 
and, throwing the clevis down beside the anvil, Bob 
wiped his face with his apron. 

“Jake,” said he slowly, “ I want ter tell ye some- 
thing. It are ‘tellin’s,’ but I don’t mind rubbin’ it 
inter yer ear.” 


H 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Jake looked indifferent. Bob went on : 

“ Do ye know what kind of a job I hev got, 
Jake?” 

“You said you were going to work at grading, 
did n’t you ? ” 

‘Yes, of course,” said Bob; “but I don’t mean 
that. Do ye know what kind of a ‘ lift ’ I ’m goin’ ter 
have ? ” 

“How should I know?” answered Jake, at the 
same time stooping to pick up the clevis. 

“ Hold on ! ” cried Bob, kicking it away with his 
heel ; “it hain’t got cooled yit. A feller would think 
ye war a sallymander. ” 

Jake looked foolish. Bob mistook his absence of 
mind for ignorance, and in a twinkling the boy had 
fallen a notch nearer to the smith’s own level. Jake 
felt this himself. A shaft that his sense of dignity 
would have enabled him to repel a moment ago now 
found easy entrance. 

With an air of abstraction, he asked : 

“ What were you saying about the road, Bob ? ” 

Bob saw his opportunity, and improved it. 

“Jake,” said he, “come out here into the lane. 
The clevis won’t cool fur a smart spell yit, and I ’ll tell 
ye what I war a goin’ ter.” 

The shop, a log building, faced the road. Behind it 
was a pasture field, from the farther side of which a lane 
led toward a small piece of woods. This lane had once 
been a public road, but had long ceased to be used for 
that purpose. Fences crossed it at several places, and 
a rickety pair of bars separated it from the field. Be- 
yond the bars a few rods grew a gigantic oak. The 
shadow of this oak lay across the lane, and far into the 


THE SHADOW IN THE OLD LANE. 1 5 

field beyond. The long summer day was near its close, 
and the sun was grazing a little cloud that had risen 
from the horizon. 

Bob led the way to a decayed log under the tree. 
Jake followed, but with the air of one ill at ease. He 
had never been intimate with Bob, whose rough man- 
ners were repulsive. Yet here he was about to be 
made his confidant. Why was Bob so condescending 
all at once, and what was the secret he was so anxious 
to whisper ? An impulse moved the boy to stop ; 
curiosity led him on. His foot touched the shadow of 
the oak, and again he felt the impulse, stronger than 
before. He entered the shadow ; a vague fear fell 
upon him. Why had he committed himself to this 
man ? What secret could he hold in common with 
him ? He stepped back out of the shadow ; his fears 
fled. He had never known anything very bad of Bob. 
Besides, he was only going to tell him about his job, 
and there was probably no great secret in it. 

“Hold on!” cried Bob. “You Ye not going 
back ? ” 

“I was just looking at this blackberry brier,” said 
Jake equivocally. 

It was not the weakness of the excuse, but its 
falsity, that made him ten times more the prey of the 
tempter than before. 

He resigned himself without further eflbrt. Both 
he and Bob entered the shadow, and sat down upon 
the log, 

Before Bob could begin to talk, they were inter- 
rupted by voices in the field behind them. 

“ Here comes Jim Sarcott now,” exclaimed Bob, 
“and old Daddy Sales with him 1 ” 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


I6 


Jake turned his head, and saw Uncle Joe walking 
toward them, engaged in an earnest conversation with 
Mr. Sarcott. The latter, in his black broadcloth, with 
white vest and a large gold watch-chain, in whose fob 
he had stuck his thumb, walked patronizingly beside 
the old man. With his free hand, he stroked his 
heavy beard, or gave it an impatient twist. 

Uncle Joe was talking, and Jake caught these 
words : 

“ Yes, yes; I hev no doubt about it a growin’, but 
let me tell ye, James, in the shadder of its arthly 
prosperity the generation that are cornin’ up will be- 
come as stunted as the bushes tryin’ ter grow in the 
shadder of that oak.” 

Jake followed the direction of the old man’s ges- 
ture, and his eyes rested upon the scattered clumps 
that were struggling for life in the baleful shadow. 

“ Bosh ! ” replied Mr. Sarcott to Uncle Joe’s remark. 
“ It is more than likely the rising generation will grow 
bigoted in the shadow of a church. It will do well 
enough for you old folks, as you all believe in it ; but 
what we want here now is ‘ business, ’ and we do not 
want any narrowness to trammel it.” 

“No need of trammelin’ it,” replied the old man. 
“ Business men kin be Christians.” 

Mr. Sarcott did not answer, but he wore a look of 
doubt. He had caught sight of Jake -and Bob, and his 
countenance at once became expressive of deep satis- 
faction. Bob looked at him with a broad grin on his 
face, at the same time glancing slyly toward Jake. 

Jake took no notice of this, but the keen eye of 
Uncle Joe did. The old man seemed a little surprised 


THE SHADOW IN THE OLD LANE. 1/ 

to see Jake in Bob’s company. However, he said 
nothing. 

The two men passed on toward the back of the 
field. Beyond the slope ran the branch, and here they 
paused, while Mr. Sarcott seemed, by his gesturing, to 
be explaining something about the new road. 

“They’re talkin’ about that church ‘business’ 
agin,” said Bob. “The old man wants Jim to give a 
lot here in the Branch fur a meetin’ house. They ’re 
goin’ ter pull down the old ’un at Craggy Hill. But, 
Lor’ ! Jim is fuller of railroad than he are of meetin’ 
house.” • 

Jake winced a little. Bob saw his mistake, and 
immediately added : 

“ But I should n’t wonder if he would do a hansum 
thing for ’em — if they do n’t plague him too much.” 

“ They have not decided to tear down the meeting 
house at Craggy Hill,” said Jake. “ May be they will 
repair it. ” 

“ It are past that,” said Bob ; “but p’raps they ’ll 
build a new one down there.” He was about* to add : 
“They will, if Jim Sarcott hez his say,” but he 
checked himself and said : “ What I war goin’ ter tell 
ye, Jake, are this : Jim Sarcott hez took the job o’ 
buildin’ the new road from Hanaford down here and ” 
— he spoke slowly, and with great emphasis — “he are 
goin’ ter give all us town fellers a big ‘ lift.’ ” 

He kept on: “It are not in the matter o’ wages 
exactly; them ’ll be nothin’ small, though.” Bob 
waited to see the effect upon Jake, but the latter said 
nothing; so he added impressively: “Jake, Jim are a 
goin’ ter help every feller what ’ll help him on the road. 


1 8 THE WHITE CHURCH. 

to a good, stiddy job in the shops and mills when they 
come.” 

May be they will not come,” said Jake. 

‘‘Yes, they will, and ye mind it. The company 
hez promised ter build shops, and Jim are goin’ ter put 
up a mill, may be a factory, too. Now are a good 
chance for ye, Jake, as well as fur the rest of us. Ye 
kin take yer old horse, and work on the road this fall, 
and make enough ter go ter the ’cademy over at Balsam- 
town this winter; or, wot ’s better yit, Jim ’ll do a 
good thing fur sech a feller as you. He are goin’ ter 
git me a stiddy job in the shops ; but, my goodness ! if 
I had yer eddication, I ’d feel safe for a book-keeper, or 
mebbe a foreman in the factories. Jim ’ll want jest 
sech a feller as ye, Jake. He likes ye, too ; I heerd 
him say so.” 

The leaven was at work. 

For the first time Jake was conscious of a dislike to 
the calling that his mother had suggested as his life’s 
work, and that his own inclinations had approved. Su- 
perintendent of a great factory ! He yielded to the 
vision, and in yielding but trod the path that humanity 
is forever crowding, eager to taste the briefest morsel of 
authority. Perhaps Bob read his thoughts, for he con- 
tinued : 

“ I know ye had a notion ter study fur a preacher, 
but, land ! Jake, it are a starvin’ life. Look at old 
Daddy Gaines. He ’s been preachin’ since I war a 
little shaver, and he ’s poor ez Job’s turkey. He had 
a farm onst, too, but he would n’t do nothin’ but 
preach, and lost it all.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” asked Jake. 

“ I ’ve heerd it often,” replied Bob. 


THE SHADOW IN THE OLD LANE. I9 

Jake did not remark upon the poverty of the evi- 
dence ; he was thinking. 

“Fur that matter,” Bob went on, “ye don’t need 
ter give up yer notion of preachin’, fur if ye do n’t like 
* business,’ ye kin go at preachin’ agin.” 

Jake was thoroughly committed. 

“Yes,” replied he, “ and may be I will have made 
some money, so that I need not depend entirely on 
preaching.” 

“ Of course,” said Bob gleefully, “ of course ; that ’s 
the idee. Money ’ll pile up fast, too, if a feller ’s in a 
good business.” 

They arose from the log to go back to the shop. 
The sun had set, and it was gloomy under the old oak. 
Jake looked around him, and somehow he felt that the 
deep shade was deeper than he had ever known it 
before. 


CHAPTER III. 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 

On the same afternoon that saw Uncle Joe 
Sales riding over the old bridge at Craggy Hill, 
Bob Loomis was standing in the door of his shop. He 
had just finished shoeing a horse, and was waiting for 
the owner to come. He had not long to wait before 
Mr. Sarcott made his appearance. 

Bob led out the horse, a fine roan, which neighed 
as he recognized his master, and pawed the ground, 

^‘Easy, Billy, easy,” said Mr. Sarcott; “you will 
have a chance to show your mettle soon enough. Bob, 

I wish you would lead him up to the stable ; David is 
busy, and besides I want to see you awhile this morn- 
ing.” 

He waved Bob away with a look that told plainly 
that he did not wish to stable the horse himself. He 
had on his fine black suit, and his thumb was twisted 
carelessly in his watchguard. Bob obeye-d Mr. Sarcott 
willingly, but wondered in his heart what business of 
importance that gentleman could have with him. 

“Wonder if he are going ter try ter git me ter 
drive Billy ^t the Hanaford Races Fair-time,” thought 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 


21 


he to himself. ‘ ‘ More ’n likely, though, he wants me 
ter fix up his sulky, but I do n’t see why he could n’t 
speak about it down ter the shop.” 

He went on with a sort of vague fear, for Mr. Sar- 
cott was a man of much importance in Bob’s eyes. 
Moreover, it was no common thing to be summoned 
to his house. His business transactions with Bob, 
never of a very grave character, were generally at- 
tended to at the shop, or wherever he and the smith 
met. 

“Don’t know as I’m owin’ of him anything,” 
thought Bob, and he glanced ruefully at his shop and 
the small house beside it, for he had not been a great 
while out of Mr. Sarcott’s clutches. This worthy man 
had long held a mortgage on Bob’s little home, and 
when Bob fell short in his final payment had graciously 
forgiven him the balance, and released the place. This 
unusual kindness had attracted some attention in Rising 
Branch ; some prophesied, however, that Bob would be 
the loser in the long run. “ Mr. Sarcott, ” it was said, 
“never gave pennies for puff-balls.” 

Poor Bob, unacquainted with law, and with a mag- 
nified idea of Mr. Sarcott’s greatness, reached that 
magnate’s stable with a heart full of imaginings. 
“ Mebbe he are goin’ ter make me pay the rest o’ 
that mortgage yit ; bend me for a horseshoe though 
if I see how he kin.” 

David took the horse, and at the same time Mr. 
Sarcott, who had reached the house by way of the road, 
called Bob, from the front gate. 

Bob trembled more than ever, for it was evident , 
that Mr. Sarcott wanted him in the house. 

Whenever the smith was with his boon companions. 


22 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


or with the other dwellers in Rising Branch, he loved to 
display a great familiarity with Mr. Sarcott. 

“Jim Sarcott don’t want no ‘ninny’ foolin’ with 
his horses’ feet. Me and Jim Sarcott is the only ones 
that kin manage that horse.” 

But now Jim Sarcott was rapidly assuming gigantic 
proportions. The “Jim” had fallen from his name, 
and “Mr.” was written all over him. It glistened on 
his watch chain, and shone fiercely in his polished 
boots. 

“Come up into my room. Bob,” The great man 
led the way, while the echoes of his voice, as they re- 
sounded through the big hall, were concentrated into 
one tremendous “MR.” 

Alas ! what a fraud most of this greatness is. Bob 
found it so after awhile. 

“ He must be goin’ ter go back on that ’ere mort- 
gage, er he ’d never a called me up here.” 

Bob remembered that when Mr. Sarcott wanted 
him to drive his horses at the Fair he had always sent 
David to tell him. What meant this summons into his 
presence? 

The room into which Mr. Sarcott ushered the be- 
wildered blacksmith was at the head of the stairs. A 
new, well woven rag carpet covered the floor, a sofa 
stood under the side windows, and a large arm-chair 
was drawn up before a bookcase in the corner. In the 
case were a number of books carefully arranged in the 
order of their size, the largest on the lower shelf. 
These books related to all sorts of subjects, but very 
prominent among them were two or three about horses, 
and a large black volume, upon whose back Bob, at 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 


23 


intervals, slowly spelled out the words, ‘^Age of 
Reason.” 

In the middle of the room was a table upon which 
was spread a map. Mr. Sarcott motioned Bob to a 
seat on the sofa, but went himself directly to the table, 
where he examined the map for some time before 
speaking. Bob scanned the room carefully. He had 
lived in Rising Branch all his life, yet he had never been 
here before. 

^‘Bob,” at length spoke Mr. Sarcott, have 
called you up here, because I have a little business 
that I can best explain to you from this map.” 

^‘It are not the mortgage,” thought Bob. 

“Come here to the table a moment.” 

Bob obeyed. 

“Here is a map of the railroad survey. Bob,” said 
Mr. Sarcott. “ I want you to see it, then I can explain 
to you what I want.” 

Bob looked carefully at the parchment upon which 
the map was made, but it must be confessed that its 
various lines and colorings rather confused than en- 
lightened him. Mr. Sarcott spent some time in giving 
him some idea of the localities represented, the rela- 
tive distances, and the cuts and fills that the road would 
require. 

“Now,” said he, putting his finger upon the map. 
“here. Bob, is Hanaford, and here,” he continued, “is 
the road coming down to Rising Branch.” 

“ Eggsactly, sir,” said Bob. 

“It is just eleven miles from Hanaford down here 
to the Branch,” added Mr. Sarcott, “and Bob — ” he 
spoke slowly, as if to impress the gaping blacksmith 


24 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


with the magnitude of the thought — “I am going to 
build this eleven miles of road myself.^’ 

“Yes, sir,’* said Bob, because he could say nothing 
else. 

“And I want help enough in Rising Branch to 
do it.” 

Bob was more puzzled than before. 

“Not money, Bob — I have that — but muscle. Do 
you understand?” 

A little light began to dawn through Bob’s addled 
brain. Gaining a little confidence, he answered : 

“You want some of us to work fer ye, sir?” 

“That ’s it, Bob ; and I want to give the boys about 
home here the first chance. Blacksmithing is a little 
dull just now, is it not?” 

“It are always dull enough, sir,” replied Bob. 
“ Wuss in this hot weather though.” 

“Well, Bob, it will be better after awhile, after 
awhile. Bob. Now I want you especially, for you will 
make a good hand on the grade.” 

“ Mebbe, sir,” said Bob, bowing respectfully and 
hesitating, “mebbe, sir, while I ’m workin’ on the road 
some feller wilf come in and sot up a shop, so when 
the road are done I ’ll be clean out of a job.” 

“Never you fear that. Bob,” returned Mr. Sarcott; 
“ there will be more blacksmithing to do when the road 
comes through here than a half dozen smiths can 
do.” 

“The iron horse don’t need any shoeing,” said 
Bob, grinning. 

“No, but he needs a good deal of repairing.” 

“Takes a machinist fer that,” rejoined Bob. 

“For most of it that ’s true, but there will be work 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 25 

for the blacksmiths, especially in the shops. There 
will be shops here, Bob, company shops.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Bob, again. 

“And now,” Mr. Sarcott continued, “if you will 
let the smithy go for awhile, I ’ll see to it that you will 
have a better thing than ever. In short, I ’ll get you a 
steady job in the railroad shops. And I ’ll do the fair 
thing with every one that helps me.” 

“No doubt, sir,” said Bob. 

‘ ‘ I want all the able bodied men I can get, and all 
the teams ; but I want you. Bob, for an overseer,” said 
Mr. Sarcott. 

“A what, sir ? ” 

“An overseer. You see, a gang of men working 
on the road will need what you would call a boss. 
Now a boss ought to be what I call a ‘handler,’ a man 
of ‘ muscle.’ ” 

Bob was flattered. “As ter handlin’ heavy 
weights,” replied he, “I guess I’m as good as any 
in the Branch.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Sarcott, “you may have some 
heavy weights to handle, for I expect a gang of Irish 
laborers from down about Carterville, besides what I 
get around here. If I build my woolen mill here I 
will want some pretty smart fellow to take charge of 
that after awhile. You could not do that, Bob.” 

“ Why not?” 

‘ ‘ Because that will take somebody with an educa- 
tion ; I guess you are not much in books.” 

“No great shakes, thet ’s so; but there are one or 
two fellers in the Branch what is.’^ 

“Who are they. Bob? Jacob Conway is one, is 
he not? ” 


26 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“Well, yes,” replied Bob, “he are one fer certin, 
but he are goin’ to be a preacher and are goin’ ter 
Balsamstown agin this fall ter keep up his studyin’. I 
don’t think he could be turned aside from thet.” 

“Such a boy as young Conway,” continued Mr. 
Sarcott, half to Bob and half to himself, “might be 
trained to a good position, and be of use to me and 
make money besides. If I only had him awhile work- 
ing for me in this railroad business, I could test his 
mettle.” 

“He are honest, if thet 's all,” said Bob. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, his father was so before him ; but Simon 
Conway had no management, and may be the boy is 
like him. By the way. Bob, don’t you think you 
could mention the matter to the lad, and see if he 
would try the road awhile with the prospect of a big 
thing ahead?” 

“I kin send him up ter you the first time I see 
him,” answered Bob. 

“The trouble about that,” said Mr. Sarcott, laugh- 
ing, “is that the boy is a little shy of me.” 

“Nothing strange if he is,” thought Bob, but he 
said nothing. 

“You see,” Mr. Sarcott went on to say, “his 
mother does not like my creed ; I am not one of the 
‘brethren.’ If he should hear a little of old Tom 
Paine’s solid sense from me I suppose it would blast 
him forever.” 

Bob puzzled himself to know what Mr. Sarcott 
meant, still he ventured no question. But the wily 
man divined Bob’s mental inquiries, so he said : 

“To be plain about it. Bob, I ’m what folks call an 
infidel, and the boy’s mother has taught him that I am 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 


27 


some kin to old Nick. No, I must get at him in some 
roundabout way. It ’s a pity for a bright boy like that 
to have his head stuffed full of such trash.” 

“As ter thet, sir, I don’t know that Jake takes ter 
me in partiklar. I guess his mother thinks as how I 
ain’t quite enough polished up fer him. He never 
’sociates much with me, sir.” 

“You do odd jobs at blacksmithing for the family, 
do you not ? ” 

“I shoe their old horse nowand then. But Jake 
and me ain’t fermiliar. Now ther ’s Andy Pike. He 
and Jake are thicker ’n two crows.” 

“Both of the same nest,” observed Mr. Sarcott; 

‘ ‘ their folks would take alarm if I broached the matter. 

I think you can manage it. Bob. Some time when the 
boy is in the shop just angle a little, and let me see 
l\ow he bites. You understand me?” 

“In course I do, sir,” answered the blacksmith. 

“Well, Bob, that is about all. Now I shall de- 
pend on you.” 

“Every time, sir,’' said Bob. 

“ And be sure about the boy. I take great interest 
in boys, especially if they are bright. Jacob would 
make a good fellow to have with my Will. He would 
stimulate him some; Will is a little lazy.” 

“Y>es, sir,” said Bob, awkwardly. 

Mr. Sarcott looked as if he did not relish such* ready 
acquiescence, but he merely showed Bob out in silence. 

The elation that an inferior feels at being 
taken into the confidence of a superior often 
becomes a lever which unscrupulous men work to 
great advantage. Bob needed no further inducement. 
He would work for Mr. Sarcott, and the vision of 


28 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


future good fortune in the shops was but lightly pres- 
ent to his mind. He returned to the shop, where 
finding nothing to do, he sauntered down to the store 
and seated himself upon the barrel where we first met 
him. He found an opportunity to angle sooner than 
he expected. How he did it the reader knows. 

After Bob had gone, Mr. Sarcott remained walking 
up and down in the chamber. At the end of the 
apartment hung the picture of a woman, a matronly 
looking person with long curls falling carelessly over 
her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to follow the mo- 
tions of the walker, who at each round paused to look 
up into her calm, benignant face. 

He had walked in this way a half hour or more, 
when he stopped before the picture and spoke in a low 
tone to himself: “Yes, yes; that’s what they say, but 
who knows? We have to die, that is one thing sure, 
but nobody knows more than that. I know as much 
about what is to come as anybody, and that is — noth- 
ing. ” He gazed earnestly into the face of the picture, 
as if he were waiting for the almost lifelike lips to move 
and to reveal the great secret. Then he folded his 
hands behind him and walked again. Hardly a breeze 
came in at the open window. The quiet of a sultry 
summer day reigned without, but in the walker’s breast 
went on the bitter conflict. It was that of a soul fight- 
ing harder to deny its own intuitions than to gain a 
knowledge of the truth. 

He resumed his reverie. “People die, and since 
we know that we can not always stay here, some- 
body has invented the story of a heaven. It is a pretty 
fable; yes, a pretty fable.” 

He stopped once more before the picture. “If 


A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 


29 


there is a heaven, Mary, you are there, or else no one 
is. But how you can do more good there than here 
with me and your children is more than I can see. 
This is a curious God that these church people tell 
about ; He has millions of angels to do His bidding, yet 
He is always depriving us poor mortals of our wives, 
our children, and our friends, and adding them to the 
throng He has about Him already.” 

Well, ” he continued, as he turned away from the 
picture again, “no one can ever fill your place here, 
but my children must have a manager. It will never 
do to let them grow up this way.” 

He walked toward the bookcase, and as he did so 
muttered softly: “Yes, the widow is a good woman, 
even if she is a little bigoted.” He took down the big 
black book, and was carelessly turning its leaves, when 
a little girl came tripping upstairs into the room. It 
seemed as if the picture, growing a little smaller, had 
come down out of its frame and was standing in the 
floor. 

“Well, Nannie?” 

“Some one wants to see you down stairs, papa.” 

“I will be down in a moment, my dear.” 

The child danced merrily out of the room, while her 
father, opening the lower drawer of the bookcase, took 
therefrom a bundle of papers. 

“ If I can get her good will by putting the boy in a 
way to help her out of this trouble, it will be a great 
step,” muttered he. 

He took a paper from the bundle and unfolded it. 
It was a mortgage on the widow Conway's home. 

“Not very big, that’s true,” said the big man to 


30 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


himself once more, '‘but it will puzzle her to pay it. I 
must go.” 

He threw the papers back into the drawer and 
hastened down stairs. His visitor was Uncle Joe 
Sales. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 

The big brown eyes of Nannie Sarcott followed her 
father as he walked out into the fields to talk with 
Uncle Joe. The old man had declined to come into 
the house, preferring to be in the open air, with the 
village, whose interest lay so near his heart, in full view 
before him. 

Nannie sat at an open window, resting ; for she had 
just been romping with Pindar, a large Newfoundland 
dog, the property of her sister Anna, who had brought 
him home some years before in a summer vacation, and 
had bestowed upon him his classic name. Pindar stood 
panting beside the child, and stretching up his neck as 
if to get a breath of the sultry air, hesitating to cross 
the window sill. 

“Pindar, there is not enough wind to ruffle your 
hair down here ; come, let us go up where it is cooler.” 

The dog bounded toward the stairway, followed by 
Nannie, when a shrill voice from the farther end of the 
hall was heard calling: “ Now^ Nannie^ you are not 


32 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


going Up to your father’s room to romp with Pindar. It 
seems as if you are bewitched. You can ’t keep still 
five minutes. Now you had better mind me. You 
will be into some mischief, I ’ll be bound, and then 
I ’ll be blamed for it. Go into the front yard and 
play.” 

“Poh! Poh ! ” was the reply that echoed through 
the big hall ; “ Come on, Pindar. ” 

The housekeeper arrived at the stairs just in time to 
see Nannie and the dog disappear above. She hesitated 
a moment, as if she would ascend, but turned away ex- 
claiming: 

“I will not stand it! Mr. Sarcott just spoils his 
children, and yet expects me to train them properly. 
There ’s an example of his ‘ perfect law of liberty 1 ’ I 
wish I had my way with that little one ; I would make 
her mind. He ’s so ’fraid of force. I don ’t care : you 
can not press a tack through a thick carpet with your 
thumb nail.” 

The angular features of the woman might have been 
carved into relief by her sharp voice. She was tall, 
with an olive complexion and dark eyes. The skin 
was drawn tightly on her face, and there was less inde- 
cision in her looks than her actions indicated, for she 
turned away from the stairs. She walked with a shuf- 
fling step toward the back part of the house. Nannie 
peeped over the banisters, and saw her retreating form ; 
then, with a smile of triumph, the little malapert ran 
gaily back to play with Pindar. 

“ Why, Pindar 1 what are you doing? ” exclaimed 
the child, as she reentered the room. The dog ran to- 
ward her with a piece of paper in his mouth. This he 
dropped at her feet, and gave a short yelp, as if in- 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 


33 


viting her to pick it up. ‘‘No, no ; you naughty dog, 
you shall not have this paper. It has fallen out of 
papa’s drawer,” cried Nannie, seizing the paper and 
holding it above her head. 

Pindar did not catch the paper, but a breath of air 
did, and in an instant carried it through the open win- 
dow. 

“ See there, now, what your have done ! ” 

Pindar simply stuck out his tongue and began to 
pant. 

“Oh, you old scamp,” continued Nannie, “ I ought 
to give you a good beating ; come right along now and 
help me find that paper. But just look there at papa’s 
drawer. It is all open. Wait till I shut it.” 

She went to the bookcase, and gave the drawer a 
push. “Oh, dear ! ” cried she, looking into it, “here ’s 
a map, and there ’s a house all drawn with a lead pen- 
cil. ” Old Dame Curiosity here took possession of the 
little soul. Out came the drawer again, and the 
spoiled child was soon rummaging in its contents. Pin- 
dar stood by in expectation. 

“You needn ’t watch for another one, sir ! Oh, my ! 
we must go and get that one that blew out.” 

Nannie put the drawer again to rights and again 
tried to close it, but she had pulled it out too far and it 
would not move. She tried and tried, and was ready 
to cry with vexation. “ Well, it was out when I came 
in, so it was.” 

“Dear me!” she continued, “I wonder if that 
paper was any good. I ’m so tired. I believe it was 
only a piece of paper, anyhow. Pindar, it was you 
that did it. Now, just come right on, sir; we must go 
and find it.” 


34 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


She started toward the door, but stopped to tie her 
shoe. Then she took a book from a stand and began 
to turn the leaves. 

Pindar yelped. 

“Oh, you want to go! do you? Well, I think 
you ought to feel sorry.” 

By this time the wind might have blown the 
paper beyond the reach of search had it been blowing 
at all ; but the day was so still that the vagabond sheet 
merely floated down to the ground and remained. 

“I don’t believe I can find it now if I do go 
down,” said the vacillating child. 

She remained at play with Pindar a few minutes 
longer, when she heard a merry voice calling: “Nan, 
Nan ! you good-for-nothing, as the old play says, 
where are you ? Come down here.” 

“ Oh, there ’s Jennie,” exclaimed the child, running 
toward the stairs. She met her sister coming up, and 
was immediately hugged and kissed until she gasped 
for breath. 

“Oh, my! let me go, Jennie.” 

“ Why, you minx ; I have not seen you fora week. 
What are you doing up here in papa’s room with Pin- 
dar ? It ’s a wonder that Mary has not been after 
you.” 

“She has been,” replied Nannie; “but when did 
you get back, Jennie ? ” 

Nannie was anxious to avoid any inquiries that 
might reveal the loss of the paper. She had ample 
opportunity to turn the conversation, for Jennie had 
just come home from a week’s visit at Hanaford, and 
was full of news and schemes. 

“0 Nan, I had a delightful time,” answered 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 


35 


Jennie, came back just now. Will Timmons 
brought me over in a buggy. It was a splendid ride, 
only the weather is so warm.” 

“Oh, oh, Jennie Sarcott ! you had a beau, you had 
a beau ; fie, shame ; you ain ’t three years older than 
me.” 

“ ‘ Three years older than me,’ that ’s pretty gram- 
mar. Well, if I didn’t have three years more sense I 
would be ashamed. It ’s none of your business. Nan 
Sarcott, if I did have a beau. I guess there is no nicer 
fellow in Hanaford than Will Timmons.” 

“ Guess you left all the good temper go out in that 
hug, didn ’t you, Jen?” 

“ Shut up,” said Jennie, now considerably nettled. 
But the bosom that had been filling up for a week 
longed to pour itself out into some friendly receptacle. 
Jennie had taken keen delight in anticipating a recital 
of her visit to Nannie. Her temper soon cooled. 
Nannie assisted her to dispose of a few bundles, the 
fruits of a shopping expedition, and the two sisters 
were presently reengaged in a friendly conversation. 

“O Nan; I was at such a delightful ball, a plat- 
form dance, over at Green’s picnic grounds, last Tues- 
day afternoon,” said Jennie. “You ought to learn to 
dance. Nan.” 

“I am going to,” replied Nannie; “papa said he 
was going to have me learn.” 

“Just wait,” continued Jennie, “until the railroad 
comes; then if papa builds a new hall there will be 
club dances, and then you can learn.” 

“ Club dances, what are they ? ” asked Nannie. 

‘ ‘ Why they have what they call clubs in some places, 
and the members all know how to dance, and every 


36 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


winter they have dances once a week. There ’s a 
splendid club over at Hanaford. ” 

Is papa going to build a new hall? ” asked Nan- 
nie. 

“ I do not know as he is going to build it all him- 
self, ” answered Jennie, “but when the railroad comes 
the town here will be bigger, and papa says we ought 
to have a hall for operas and such things. My good- 
ness, Nan, Rising Branch is such a dry place! You 
ought to be over at Hanaford ; there ’s something going 
on there all the time, summer and winter. But it will 
be lively enough here after awhile.” 

“I wonder if there will be any euchre parties?” 
queried Nannie. 

“There will be some euchre clubs, I ^11 warrant, ” 
replied Jennie; “there will be some people here, I 
hope, that we can associate with. Who wants to play 
euchre with the Spinks and Taberlys ? ” . 

“I play with Maud Taberly sometimes,” said 
Nannie. 

“O Nan, ’’added Jennie, gleefully, without notic- 
ing Nannie’s remark, “what do you think ? I was over 
at cousin Dorinda’s, you know, and she made me go to 
church with her last Sunday.” 

“ What, to a real church I ” 

“Of course, you goose; to what other kind could 
I go?” 

“Well, I meant a big one like I saw when I went 

with papa to K , not a log one like the one down 

at Craggy Hill ; that’s what I mean.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, of course, we went to the big Baptist 
church. Dorinda’ belongs to it. I got tired, too. 
There is no fun in it, and one has to sit so still ; and. 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 57 

beside, you keep thinking about the bad things you 
have done. I do not like to do that.” 

Nannie thought of the lost paper, but said nothing. 

Jennie went on : “The preacher told about Christ 
and how He is a model for our conduct ; but papa says 
those stories about Christ are all foolishness, just like 
those about Jack the Giant Killer and the Arabian 
Nights. I ’m glad of it.” 

“ Glad of what? ” asked Nannie. 

‘ ‘ Why, glad that the stories the preacher told are 
not so. One can have a lots better time if they do not 
believe them.” 

“ Mary says they are so,” said Nannie. 

“ Well, I guess papa knows more than Mary, and 
so does sister Anna; she does not believe a word of 
them.” 

“ Eurilda Conway believes them,” persisted Nannie, 
“and she’s awful good.” 

“Oh, yes; I know Eurilda ’s good,” said Jennie, 
“ but she never has any fun. Papa says that she is all 
drying up, and getting old before her time. She is so 
strict, too. She never comes here much because papa 
will not go to church. Her mother thinks he ’s just 
terribly bad. ” 

“Well, Eurilda is just the splendidest girl I know 
of,” was Nannie’s reply, “ I wish papa would let me go 
to Sunday-school with her.” 

* ‘ Well, he will not, ” said Jennie, ‘ ‘ for he does not 
want you filled with such crazy notions. I never went 
to Sunday-school, and I know papa will not let you.” 

“ I was there two or three times,” rejoined Nannie, 
earnestly. 


38 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


** Well, you were so little then that it could n’t hurt 
you; but you are getting too big now.” 

The long summer day had died during this childish 
conversation, and the girls started to go down stairs. 

“There ’s papa,” said Jennie, as she recognized his 
well-known step in the hall. She ran to greet him, and 
poured out such a voluble account of her visit that he 
stopped her with: “ Wait, my child, until after I take 
a lunch. Mary will think I am never coming.” 

They followed him to the dining-room, where Mary 
was awaiting them, not, as Nannie read her counte- 
nance, in a very good humor. 

Mr. Sarcott himself had returned from his interview 
with Uncle Joe in an unpleasant frame of mind. He 
had a vague feeling that his opposition to the old man 
was not for the highest interests of the village. But 
his own interpretation of those interests did not dispose 
him to abandon his hostility. He felt ashamed, too, of 
the unmanly way in which he was seeking to get Jake 
Conway into his power. “ Why did I not see the boy 
myself? ” was his mental inquiry ; but he satisfied his 
conscience by saying, “ If I had, I could have done 
nothing, for the family are all so prejudiced.” 

Jennie rehearsed to him her visit, not omitting the 
account of her attendance at church. 

“So Dorinda made you go, did she?” said he. 
“ Well, she is a good creature, and I suppose she takes 
comfort in it.” 

“A good creature!” The sharp voice of Mary 
interrupted the recital. “ I did not know you believe 
in any goodness, James Sarcott.” 

“ Who said so ? ” 

“Well, you use the term goodness, and you teach 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 39 

your children that there is no God and no responsi- 
bility.” 

“ I have always taught my children that they should 
do right, Mary.” 

“ ‘That they should do right?’ Why do you say 
should f'" 

“Oh, plague on your theology ! I suppose I have 
enough sense to teach my children to be moral. Be- 
cause I do not want their heads filled with religious cant 
is no sign I want them to go to the bad.” 

“Well, well,” laughed Mary in derision, “you 
want them to be moral and not go to the bad. Who ’s the 
author of your morality, and who oughts them to be 
good ? Of course, this ought stands without an author 
and is perfectly aimless.” 

“ O Mary, be still,” said the bothered man; “ one 
look at you ought to disgust the children with this re- 
ligious nonsense ; you have been so nearly a nun for the 
last ten years that all the springs of youth are dried up 
and you think a laugh is a consignment to perdition.” 

“That is an unkind remark.- I say it, though you 
are my cousin. I know I am not as cheerful as I might 
be. You know the reason better than to speak such 
an untruth. I can assure you that I would be less 
cheerful if I drank from the spring of your belief, or 
rather unbelief.” 

Mr. Sarcott made no reply. 

The girls had listened with commendable deference, 
and they followed their father into the hall only to bid 
him good-night. 

Mrs. Conway was not pleased with Jake’s project of 
relinquishing his studies to work on the railroad for Mr. 
Sarcott. 


40 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“I am sorry that you have taken this notion, 
Jacob,” said she, *‘butl may as well tell you, what 
both you and Eurilda have some idea of, no doubt. 
What little money your father left at his death is nearly 
gone ; and do you know,” added she in a subdued voice, 
“ that Mr. Sarcott has a mortgage on our home? ” 

“What! a mortgage on our home?” exclaimed 
both children in a breath. 

It would be hard to picture the look of astonish- 
ment that Jake and Kurilda wore at this moment. 

“ I thought father’s debts were all paid,” said Jake. 

“So did I,” replied Mrs. Conway; “but in closing 
Up the affairs, for you know I was the administratrix, I 
have found this mortgage, and it will take most of our 
money to raise it.” 

“ Why in the world has not Mr. Sarcott mentioned 
it before? ” asked Eurilda. 

“I can not tell,” said her mother ; “ he is a strange 
man. But, perhaps, Jacob, the plan you suggest is for 
the best.” 

“Oh, dear!” said Eurilda, “if you had better 
company I would not feel so bad ; but there ’s Bob 
Loomis and his companions. Jake, now promise that 
if you do begin this you will come home every night.” 

“Why, of course I will,” said the surprised boy, 
who had never been from home over night a dozen 
times in his lif^. 

The family felt too serious too talk much longer, 
and the widow, taking down the family Bible, handed it 
to Jake to read the evening lesson. 

The summer night had settled upon Rising Branch. 
The harvest moon was creeping' along the horizon and 
a light breeze had sprung up which rustled the leaves of 


A GLIMPSE AT TWO HOMES. 


41 


the old oak. From every side came the chorus of the 
frogs, into which was thrown at intervals the prolonged 
note of the hylas. A scent of tobacco smoke was on 
the air. It came from the pipes of a crowd of loungers 
about the village store. Bob Loomis had left them and 
was walking slowly homeward. Not far from Mr. 
Sarcott’s house he stopped to pick up a damp piece of 
paper. 


CHAPTER V. 

CRAGGY HILL. 

Unde Joe was not disappointed in his interview with 
Mr. Sarcott. He had expected no encouragement. 
That gentleman had resolved, the moment he saw who 
his visitor was, to give him no chance to plead the 
cause of a church. He talked volubly of the future of 
Rising Branch, and, with a pseudo-enthusiasm for its 
business prospects, tried to drown the old man’s attempts 
to broach the subject. Occasionally Uncle Joe pressed 
it home, but was cut off as we have seen. 

“ He took a power o’ pains,” said he in relating the 
interview to his wife, to pint out ter me all the forth- 
cornin’ improvements at the village, but his perliteness 
w^r only a buckler ter ward me off.” 

Grandma Sales raised her eyes from the big Bible 
that lay upon her lap. She and Uncle Joe were sitting 
together on the porch of the old home at Craggy Hill. 
It was the Lord’s day following the patriarch’s visit to 
Rising Branch. She had not been able to attend church 
in the morning, and Uncle Joe persisted in giving her an 
account of the sermon. To this he had added a report 
of the feeling among the brethren concerning the new 


42 


CRAGGY HILL. 


43 


church. He passed thus naturally to his interview with 
Mr. Sarcott, an account of which he had hitherto with- 
held. The aged matron lifted her spectacles and sat 
quietly listening. Wrinkles and marks of failing health 
were plain enough, but there was something else that 
told of once more than ordinary beauty. The quiet of 
the fading summer day seemed but an amplification of 
the tranquillity in her face. A ray of sunshine stealing 
through the creeping vines at the end of the porch lay 
like a golden step at her feet. Thorwaldsen or Rogers 
might have taken her for the genius of Peace. 

“ I am sure I can ’t explain it, Joseph,” said the old 
lady ; “ why a man wants to sot himself up agin such a 
source of good as a real. God-fearin’, laborin’ church, 
I don’t know. Surely he ought ter know that he are 
kickin’ again the goads. Look at Paul. He sot him- 
self up again God, and he war humbled in a terrible 
way.” 

“Fer that matter,” answered Uncle Joe, there 
war the Jews and Saul as war teached the same lesson, 
albeit they never larnt it in full then. As fer James Sar- 
cott, let me tell ye, mother, I don’t believe he is so 
great a rebel as might be thought. He does n’t deny to 
his own heart what he does to me. His faith are too 
weak, though, to overcome his selfishness. He are weak 
in his own creed. He wants his children to have the 
advantages of a church, and yet he fears the influence 
of it upon his schemes to make money. Satan has 
showed him the kingdoms of the world, and he has not 
the power to say, ‘ Get behind me.’ ” 

Well, I don’t know, I don’t know, Joseph, ’’said 
the old lady ; mebbe you ’re right. You were alius bet- 
ter at readin’ folks than I am, but I can’t see as how 


44 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


James Sarcott wants his children terhevthe advantages 
of a church. As far as I hev ever heard, he gives ’em 
no encouragement ter go, and let’s that second gal of his 
run round to all the dances and such like as is goin’ on. ” 
“He sees where he hez been makin’ a mistake,” re- 
plied Uncle Joe ; “when his children ware real small 
he ware always flingin’ out about churches and Chris- 
tians. The two oldest ones, at any rate, hev caught 
his sperit, but it are beginnin’ to bear fruit, and James 
do n’t like the flavor.” 

“ It are a pity for Nannie,” replied Grandma Sales ; 
“she is a sweet child, an’ so much like her mother.” 

“She are indeed, Samantha,” rejoined Uncle Joe, 
“and James are goin’ ter try to throw religious influen- 
ces around her, without endangerin’ his pocketbook. ” 
“I don’t understand ye, Joseph.” 

“Samantha,” replied Uncle Joe, solemnly, “would 
you believe that James Sarcott would like ter marry the 
widder Conway?” 

“ Marry the widder Conway? ” asked the old lady in 
astonishment. ‘ ‘ Would the widder Conway marry him ?” 

“ I don’t know as ter thet, ” answered Uncle Joe; 
‘ ‘ I just axed the question. ” 

“ What on airth put thet in yer head, Joseph ?” 
“Well,’’ answered Uncle Joe, “I can’t hardly tell 
what, but I will venture to predict that more astonishin’ 
things than yer imagine will come round fur us ter think 
on, and purty soon, too.” 

“ P’rhaps so,” said the aged wife, “but none^ I 
hope, of the natur you are hintin’ at. If anybody in 
Risin’ Branch understands the Scriptures, it are Amelia 
Conway, and don’t they say, ^ Be ye not unequally 
yoked with unbelievers ’? ” 


CRAGGY HILL. 


45 


Grandma Sales believed firmly that Uncle Joe had 
good ground for his prediction, but she was never ac- 
customed to press him for explanations, so she said no 
more, trusting time to make further revelations. 

Summer waned into autumn. The leaves grew red 
upon the maples, and far and near the katydid nightly 
rasped the nerves of the forest. There were signs of 
activity in Rising Branch. Work on the new railroad 
was progressing, and nearly every house in the village 
had taken some of the hands to board. Jake Conway 
had foregone his intention of attending Balsamtown 
Academy, and was working with the old horse on the 
grade. He had begun this much to the sorrow of both 
Eurilda and his mother, and the former grieved intensely 
at his enforced companionship with Bob Loomis. For 
allowing him to undertake the work at all, Mrs. Conway 
quieted her conscience with the thought of the family 
necessities. Jake prided himself to think that he . was 
relieving these, but, at the same time, there was an am- 
bition in his heart whose object was “of the earth, 
earthy.” Uncle Joe, who visited the village weekly, 
for the purpose of getting his mail, watched the progress 
of events with no careless eye. A church meeting had 
been appointed at Craggy Hill, in which it was hoped 
that some definite arrangement for a new meeting-house 
could be reached. 

On a pleasant autumn evening a few days before this 
meeting. Uncle Joe and his wife sat conversing again in 
the old home at Craggy Hill. The old man had just 
returned from the village, and in the course of the con- 
versation slowly drew the wrapper from his weekly 
paper. 

“ What hev you there?” inquired Grandma Sales. 


46 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“The Hanaford Register,” replied Uncle Joe. “I 
thought I would look over the week’s news a bit. ” 

He unfolded the paper, but before he had begun to 
read aloud, as was his usual custom, the forcible ejacu- 
lation, “ Wal, I declare!” startled the old lady into 
asking: “ Well, what, fer pity sakes?” 

“ I jest expected it ; I jest expected this very thing, 
and mark me, Samantha, it will bear its fruits.” 

“ Expected it, expected what? What on airth is it, 
Joseph ?” 

Uncle Joe adjusted his spectacles and read the fol- 
lowing advertisement : 

For Sale— Town Lots. 

InSarcott’s Addition to the Town of Rising Branch. 

Now is the time to invest. These I.ots will double the 
price paid for them in two years. 

The Railroad is a Certainty. Now is the Chance for Those 
Who Wish to Move to Town. 

JS@“For terms address J. Sarcott, Rising Branch. 

“The bubble are risin’ into the air, and showin’ its 
colors beautifully, ” said the old man ; ‘ ‘ but it will break, 
Samantha — I kin tell ye it will break.” 

“ I hev no doubt of it, Joseph,” was his wife’s re- 
ply ; “ but now this bubble are started to floatin’ there 
will be plenty of children to follow it.” 

“ Certainly ther will,” added Uncle Joe. “ I heard 
yesterday that Samuel Martin and Jonas Kibbs were 
both goin’ ter move ter the village.” 

“What! and leave their farms?” asked Grandma 
Sales. 

“Yes, ” answered Uncle Joe, “and leave more hap- 
piness behind them than they will ever find in their fool- 
ish chase arter it.” 


CRAGGY HILL. 


47 


Grandma Sales made no reply, and Uncle Joe sat 
quiet, but whether he was reading the news or engaged 
in deep thought no man might tell. 


CHAPTER VI. 


OPPOSITION TO UNCLE JOE. 

The old meeting-house at Craggy Hill had been 
built when the neighborhood was still a forest. Time 
and again it had been repaired, until the argument for 
a new one was the stern logic of events. Where to 
build was the only question that vexed the brethren 
there, and to settle this was the object of a week-day 
meeting. Toward this meeting Uncle Joe had looked 
with intense anxiety, for he knew that many would not 
be able to overcome sentiment with sense. 

To do this had cost himself a struggle, and he knew 
that where he had barely achieved victory, a weaker 
soul might meet defeat. 

He knew how many would feel as did he himself, 
when two nights before the meeting, he was riding 
homeward from the village and was passing the old 
church. He was in a serious frame of mind. He was 
sorry that the widow Conway had allowed Jake to go to 
work upon the railroad. He was troubled, too, because 
he thought he saw a trace of some untoward influence 
exercised upon her. There are times in men’s lives 
when, through the discouragement of circumstances, 

48 


OPPOSITION TO UNCLE JOE. 


49 


they feel a weakening of their greatest moral resolu- 
tions ; — a disposition to abandon the object of their high- 
est inspiration as something conceived in a burst of en- 
thusiasm, and impossible to accomplish. 

“ Mebbe we had better build agin on the old spot,” 
said Uncle Joe as he came in sight of the log church. 
“ I do n’t know as I ’m able to carry on this fight sin- 
gle-handed.” 

An autumn moon had again rounded into fullness, 
and the shadow of the old building lay across the road 
like a dark bridge. 

“There are sacred mem’ries clusterin’ around here,” 
thought the old man, and he reined up his horse oppo- 
site the graveyard. His eyes rested upon a stone whose 
shadow, like that of the church, fell upon the road. A 
tear stole down his wrinkled cheek and he resigned 
himself to his thoughts. 

* ‘ Poor old Father Leeb ! Y e kin never think of goin’ 
to worship except here close to yer Barbara’s grave. 
Alas ! why should she be sleepin’ here at all ? Rum 
and ruin ! rum and ruin ! It are the same old story. 
How well I remember them sleigh-bells the night she 
war married. How happy she looked standin’ on the 
threshold of a new life! No wonder that ye look sad 
sometimes, old church. I allow that ye arefollerin’ the 
feet that have gone out to come back no more forever; 
or else watchin’ the progress of lives begun at yer 
altar.” 

The keen wind of the late autumn moaned softly 
around the gables of the old church. 

“Ye are sighin’, yes, sighin’ fur yer children wan- 
derin’ into forbidden paths,” thought Uncle Joe, and 
he wiped another tear from his cheek. “No, no,” 


50 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


thought he further, '‘there are many who will find it 
hard to leave the old spot. And ain’t one of that many 
your own self, Joseph Sales ? Who will ever thank ye 
for forgoin’ the regular visit to those three graves yonder 
every Lord’s day after meetin’ ?” He was looking beyond 
the larger stone into the shadow where he knew arose 
a humble monument carved with three beloved names. 

But faith, like Noah’s dove, came back. “ It kin 
be done, and it must be done, ” muttered the old man to 
himself. “After all, what are we leavin’ here but dust? 
Yes, I say dust, but I know it are goin’ to be a task to 
convince such as Father Leeb that stayin’ here is just 
lettin’ dust bind us fast to dust.” 

So long had the old man tarried that it was quite 
late when he reached home. 

“Goodness me, Joseph! what on airth has been 
keepin’ ye?” was the greeting of Grandma Sales. 

“I stopped down by the meetin’-house, and ware 
thinkin’,” replied Uncle Joe. 

“ A good place to think, Joseph,” said the old lady, 
“but rather a queer time.” 

“The time and the place ware both impressive, Sa- 
mantha,” rejoined Uncle Joe. “ I hev not felt so little 
like givin’ up the site of the old church as I hev to- 
night for a long time. It are no easy matter to take 
the old house from its associations, but it are not this so 
much as thinkin’ how single-handed I am in tryin’ to 
have the new one built at the village.” 

“ How do ye know that 5^e are single-handed, Jo- 
seph?” asked Grandma Sales. 

“I am sure I don’t know who is with me in the 
matter,” answered the patriarch ; “at least none as kin 
help me much.” 


OPPOSITION TO UNCLE JOE. 


51 


“Joseph,” said his good old wife, impressively, 

* ‘ are ye gettin’ so vain in yer old age as to suppose 
that none but ye kin see the need of buildin’ the new 
church at the village? Ye put me in mind of Elijah 
when he thought there was none left to serve the Lord 
but him. Ye are not alone in this matter, Joseph. 
There are those beside yourself that both know and will 
help.” 

Uncle Joe felt this mild rebuke, and he made no re- 
ply. Arising quietly from his chair, he took his well- 
worn Bible from the shelf, and soon he and his venera- 
ble wife joined in the evening worship. 

The day of the church meeting soon set bounds to 
Uncle Joe’s impatience. Again he set forth, looking 
much as when he appeared in the beginning of this 
tale. The colored banners of the woods had begun to 
fade. Crisp frosts had ripened the fox grapes, and 
opened the brown chincapins to the gleeful schoolboy. 
The brown corn-shocks rustled to the cool wind and 
awaited the attack of the husker. The old horse of 
our hero trudged slowly on, glancing with longing eye 
at the heaps of yellow corn, or anon, with head down, 
dreaming of luxuriant winter fare. A half mile brought 
Uncle Joe to the log church, where he was gratified to 
see that a goodly number of the brethren had already 
gathered. Father Leeb, with his gray locks hanging 
down to his shoulders and his bent form resting on his 
cane, was standing near Barbara’s grave. Uncle Joe 
shook his head and muttered : “ He are a good Chris- 
tian soul, but it are him that I most fear.” He tied 
the old horse and entered the church, whither those 
without soon followed him. The usual preliminaries of 
a business meeting were hastily attended to. Bro. An- 


52 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


thony Gimler was made chairman, and the main ques- 
tion was soon under discussion. Whatever forms of op- 
position Uncle Joe may have expected, and he expected 
some, he was wholly unprovided for one that now pre- 
sented itself Hardly had the chairman begun to an- 
nounce the character of the meeting, when Elder Trib- 
bey, who had not been at church for three months, ow- 
ing to sickness, leaned over and said to Uncle Joe in an 
undertone : 

“Well, Bro. Sales, they tell me that you are 
seeking a little glory for yourself by working to have 
the new church at the village. It seems to me that a 
man who understands the Bible as well as you do ought 
to remember how God punished certain men who sought 
to exalt themselves and belittle His cause. Have you 
forgotten Nebuchadnezzar and Herod ?” 

It was not so much the withering sarcasm of the el- 
der — Uncle Joe had felt that before — but it was the in- 
quiry that it started in the old man’s mind that troubled 
him exceedingly. He ventured no reply whatever, and 
though apparently listening to Bro. Gimler, he was in- 
tent upon his own thoughts. Was he, indeed, seeking 
his own glory ? Why had he not thought of that be- 
fore ? How his inspiration was deceiving him ! He 
had thought he was working in the cause of the Master, 
and here it was very evident that he was seeking honor 
from men. He recalled the inward satisfaction that 
several commendations of his course had awakened 
within him. He remembered the ragged urchin who 
had called him Uncle when he was riding to the 
village in the summer. He thought of the pride that 
had stolen in upon him when he resolved to be “more 
than an uncle to this neighborhood.” The opposition 


OPPOSITION TO UNCLE JOE. 


53 


of Father Leeb shrank to nothing before this foe arising 
within himself. His most formidable enemy was to be 
within and not without. This doubt of his own mo- 
tives — how should he resolve it ? His train of thought 
was interrupted by Father Leeb, who, with difficulty, 
arose to his feet and leaned upon his cane. 

“Brethren,” said he, slowly, “I have been a mem- 
ber of the church for well nigh on to a half a century, 
and this spot has become sacred to me through many 
associations. In yon graveyard sleeps my only darter, 
and ye all know how lately her mother was laid by her 
side. If I spoke fer myself alone, I would say. Build 
the new church here, right here where so many of us 
hev had our eyes opened to righteousness, and where 
most of us hope to take our last sleep. But I am 
growin’ old, and even if I were not, it would be a grave 
sin of my jedgment not to see that Risin’ Branch vil- 
lage is the one spot of our neighborhood where the 
blackest cloud of evil is settlin’ and where the lamp of 
God needs most to be set. I kin not speak long. My 
voice is fer the village. I shall give my poor means to 
help God’s cause there, and the satisfaction I shall have in 
it ye need not call pride. Satisfaction at doin’ what Judg- 
ment says is right is one of God’s rewards fer doin’ right. ” 

This last sentence was a great relief to Uncle Joe. 
“I hev made no mistake in my jedgment,” thought 
he, “and the devil shall not tempt me from duty by 
makin’ me think my motives is bad.” 

He was so surprised at the unlooked-for course of 
Father Leeb that he lost his opportunity to rise and 
speak. Elder Tribbey was on the floor before him. 
So confident had Uncle Joe been that the course of 
Father Leeb would settle the whole matter, that the El- 


54 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


der’s speech astonished him. The latter, who was not 
only a leading farmer of the neighborhood, but also a 
lawyer and a Justice of the Peace, spoke in smooth, 
elegant language, quite in contrast to that of most of 
his brethren. 

“I have,” said he, “due reverence for Father 
Leeb’s opinion ; but he himself will grant that I have 
been able, in my position, to see some things more 
clearly than he, especially since I have been around 
more of late years. I confess that I attach more value 
than he does to mere sentiment. I have friends that 
sleep in this old burying-ground, and there are tradi- 
tions of interest to me here. If we could move the 
graveyard, and all our history and traditions, I should 
favor building in the village. But our traditions and 
associations here have too much to do in moulding the 
character of our children to abandon them lightly. For 
my part I think Bro. Sales, who seems to have started 
this notion of moving, has had a little too much self- 
glorification in view. I can not think of making an un- 
toward move, and at the same time encouraging his 
sin.’^ 

Uncle Joe still sat silent. Old Brother Tone drew 
from him a smile by declaring that, “ If we want to soil 
the church, jest plant it in the soot.” “They that are 
whole need not a physician, but they that are sick,” 
said Father Leeb in reply to this. 

Deacon Scammon urged the difficulty of “gettin’ 
out the timber and drawin’ it away up ter the village.” 
And Bro. Gimler thought that so few members lived 
near the village that it would be impossible to raise the 
means to build there. 


OPPOSITION TO UNCLE JOE. 55 

Many of the members said nothing, merely waiting 
to see the direction of the tide. 

Uncle Joe’s time to speak had now arrived. “I am 
certainly rejoiced,” said he, “to think that Father Leeb 
has risen so far above selfishness as ter speak as he hez. 
Surely none of ye hev stronger ties than him ter bind 
ye ter this old spot. I hev looked fur some opposition, 
but I hardly expected oncharitable words. Brethren, 
I hev prayed ter God that I might not seek my own 
glory in this matter. I am like Father Leeb. If I ware 
speakin’ fur myself, I know I would never consent ter 
leavin’ here. But I see before me a generation cornin’ 
up, who, in the course of events, is a goin’ ter make 
their homes in the village. Yes, I see more than this. 
I see some who do not live there now drawed there by 
the hope of better worldly sarcumstances. There is a 
invertation fur them to come now. Mebbe it are a sad 
comment on human natur’ fur ter suppose that they 
can ’t walk without the help of Christian influence. 
But who is there so strong as not ter need the influence 
of moral instertutions ? But more than all, brethren, 
it are a sad thing ter miss good opportunities. If ye 
neglect the village now, its Macerdonian cry will strike 
yer ears and accuse yer hearts in some later time. 
Somebody else will hear, and will build up the cause, 
while the success of the gospel there will forever be a 
standin’ reproach to Craggy Hill, whose heart’s door 
was once knocked at and refused ter open.” Uncle Joe 
concluded, and silence settled upon every soul. 

It was broken by Bro. Gimler, who arose to put the 
final question. 

Father Leeb leaned his head on his cane, and Uncle 
Joe sat with half-closed eyes. In clear tones Bro. Gim- 


56 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


ler called for the vote. The result was a tie. Bro. 
Gimler now had the power to decide, and Uncle Joe 
gave up the cause as lost. Elder Tribbey smiled com- 
placently, but great was the surprise when the chair- 
man, arising, spoke as follows: “Brethren, when I 
came here, I thought I knew as well as any one the 
wants of this congregation. I scouted the idea of 
building at the village. I feel differently now. I am 
not yet prepared to give my vote, and doubt not that 
we all need more time to consider before we make our 
decision final. Let us seek the counsel of God, and 
come together at another time.” 

And so the matter was left; while Uncle Joe, as he 
thought of the unlooked-for course it had taken, called 
to mind the words of his wife the night before. 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE MORNING COMETH. 

Winter closed in earlier than usual on Rising 
Branch ; but, throughout its short, dark days, even in 
the stormiest weather, the work on the new railroad 
went steadily on. When the cold became severe for a 
few weeks, the work on the grade was set aside, only 
that all hands might find employment in getting out 
ties, several farmers having taken large contracts to 
furnish the same to the railroad company. Much labor 
was expended in hauling stone to build culverts, and in 
this Jake Conway was engaged. 

The village store not only doubled its sales, but 
became nightly the headquarters for a motley assem- 
blage of laborers. There were a dozen or more jolly 
Irishmen, as many sinister-looking Italians, together 
with a few men and boys from the neighboring farms. 
These crowded around the stove in the back of the 
store-room, sat on the counter, blew clouds of smoke 
from clay pipes, and rendered the place almost a Bedlam 
with their songs. Of course, all this was unpleasant to 
Mr. Dill, the storekeeper; but then, there was money 
in it. As long as there was such an unusual sale for 


57 


58 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


pipes and tobacco, he would not complain. Many of 
the customers of the store, however, sought it in day' 
time only. Especially was this true of the female 
portion. A number of rough board shanties had been 
built along the line of road, and in these some of the 
laborers lived, with their families. But the greater 
number, including all the Italians, occupied a large 
frame boarding-house, which had been temporarily 
erected by Mr. Sarcott, near the edge of the village. 
At the head of this establishment, he had succeeded in 
putting Jeff Stormer and his wife Mollie, who had left 
their little farm near Craggy Hill, allured by the glow- 
ing representations of the great magnate. 

“Tut, tut. Brother Stormer! what does all this 
mean?” had been Uncle Joe’s exclamation early in the 
winter, when, riding by the little home, he saw unmis- 
takable signs of a removal. 

“ I know it is rather sudden. Brother Sales,” replied 
Jeff; “ but the truth of the matter is that Mollie and me 
has had a little streak of luck. Jim Sarcott has give us 
the chance to board some of his hands this winter, and 
on such terms as is goin’ to make us a little money. I 
tell you. Brother Sales, now is our chance. There ’s 
nothin’ in farmin’, and our little place is not paid off 
yet. Mollie and me is in good health, and can get 
more in one year at the village than we can here in 
three.” 

Uncle Joe rode on, but he shook his head, and 
talked in a low tone to himself. 

The holiday season had arrived ; the jingle of sleigh- 
bells made the air merry, and Mr. Dill had decked out 
the village store in a manner unknown before to the 
oldest inhabitant. 


THE MORNING COMETH. 


59 


Well, old fellow, what do you think of it by this 
time?” was Mr. Sarcott’s inquiry, as he entered the 
store, on the day before Christmas. 

“ Never saw the beat of it before, sir,” replied Mr. 
Dill, glancing complacently around at his large stock of 
holiday goods. ‘ ‘ The trade never was a fourth as 
great as it is now.” 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Sarcott ; “there was 
never anything here to call out trade ; but I tell you. 
Dill, where there ’s labor plenty, there ’s money plenty. 
And now, by the way. Dill, my man, we ’ll have all this 
here — yes, sir, right here — another winter. We can 
have it all, just as well as Carterville or Hanaford can.” 

As Mr. Sarcott made this remark, he made a sweep- 
ing movement with his hand, indicating the handbills 
that filled the store, advertising holiday pleasures in the 
two towns. 

There was a flaming announcement of a “Grand 
Holiday Ball,” to be given under the auspices of the 
K. L. D. of Hanaford; an “Exciting Bicycle Race” 
at Simpson’s Hall, in Carterville; “A Magnificent 
Carnival and New Year’s Masquerade,” for the benefit 
of the “ Sons of Liberty,” etc. 

“None of these organizations here, Sarcott,” said 
Mr. Dill. 

“Never mind. Dill; we’ll have them here, or 
branches of them, never fear. And another thing ; you 
know the boys are all off to-day?” Mr. Dill nodded. 
“ All off, of course, and will be for a week. Most of 
them have gone over to Hanaford, or down to Carter- 
ville. No need of it. Dill — none whatever. This 
money could all be kept at home.” 

Mr. Dill said nothing, but looked mystified. 


6o 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“You understand?” said Mr. Sarcott, knowingly. 
He made a motion with his hand toward his lips. 

“ Oh, ah, yes, I see,” said Mr. Dill ; “exactly so.” 

“ There ’s an excellent place, right there,” said Mr. 
Sarcott, pointing to a door that opened into a side 
room. 

Mr. Dill nodded again, this time with a look of 
great satisfaction upon his face. 

“ Do n’t let another month go by. Dill, but lay in a 
stock. The boys come here through the week, I 
know; but Saturday nights. Dill, Saturday nights — 
pay-day nights, you understand — you lose them. These 
Irish will have it ; and, as far as I can see, they work 
just as well, if not better. We might as well profit by 
it as any one.” 

Mr. Dill rubbed his hands and nodded again. At 
the same time, he handed Mr. Sarcott a box of cigars. 
The latter took one, and, lighting it, continued the 
conversation : 

“ Well, Dill, the new mill is a fixed fact. I let the 
contract yesterday. Work will begin upon it as soon 
as spring opens. Lots are going off fast, too. A 
number of people from the country are sure to build in 
the spring. They are considerably stirred up down 
about Craggy Hill. I am afraid” — and here Mr. Sar- 
cott indulged in a hearty laugh — “that there wont be 
a corporal’s guard left down there to listen to old 
Daddy Gaines preach. My gracious ! how the pros- 
pect of a few shiners stirs up the saints! ” 

Mr. Dill nodded and laughed. 

“ By the way,” continued Mr. Sarcott, “ I sold that 
corner lot to Jack Dover, of Hanaford, the other day. 

I guess I know what he wants with it, too. Do n’t let 


THE MORNING COMETH. 


6l 


him get ahead of you, Dill. There ’ll be business 
enough for two of you, no doubt ; but the one that 
gets the first hold has the best show, you see.” 

Mr. Dill replied with his usual nod, while Mr. Sar- 
cott threw the stub of his cigar into the stove, and 
turned to go out. 

“ Come here. Dill, come here,” he called, just as he 
reached the door. Mr. Dill responded at once. ‘ ‘ Look 
at that ! There is business for you. What did I tell 
you ? ” 

Two teams hauling immense saw-logs were passing 

by. 

“What! is that Colby Haines?” asked Mr. Dill. 

“That is just who it is,” answered Mr. Sarcott. 
“Colby has rented his farm, and is going to build 
here. He is getting out timber for his new house 
already, and I sold him a lot only last week.” 

Mr. Dill looked very much surprised, yet perfectly 
gratified. 

“He is going to build a nice one, too, I can tell 
you,” added Mr. Sarcott. 

“Craggy Hill Church will miss him, ’’said Mr. Dill, 
slowly; “he is a strong member.” 

“Oh, well,” replied Mr. Sarcott, carelessly, “the 
saints can stand it to take a little extra trouble in get- 
ting to church, if they are making money, you know. 
The fact is. Dill, I have been down to Craggy Hill 
lately. I have been holding a little revival down there. 
In other words, I have been showing the folks how 
necessary it is to make good provision for the body, 
and where to make it, too. Old Joe Sales wants to 
follow them up, and keep the church under their 
noses. We ’ll trip him up on that, though.” 


62 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Mr. Dill nodded. Mr. Sarcott said no more, but 
walked toward his home. 

The storekeeper returned inside, and immediately 
entered the little room indicated by Mr. Sarcott. It 
began at about the middle of the storeroom, and ran 
parallel with it to the end of the building. It had been 
used as a weighing and ware-room, and was partially 
filled with barrels and boxes. 

‘‘Don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself,” 
was the soliloquy of Mr. Dill. “ It can be done like a 
top. Good place for the stove right here. Counter 
right across the end. ’T will keep the boys out of the 
main room a good deal, too.’’ He rubbed his hands 
and nodded vigorously, as if assenting to some proposi- 
tion that he had made to himself. 

The holidays came and went. Though Mr. Dill did 
a good business, nevertheless the pleasure-seekers of 
Rising Branch found their chief attractions in the two 
large towns. 

Thus matters stood in the village, when, about two 
weeks after these events, at the close of a pleasant 
winter day, Eurilda Conway, who had been out making 
some calls, returned to the cottage. She found her 
mother preparing tea. Jake had not come from his 
work. It was a little past his usual time, and Mrs. 
Conway inquired of Eurilda if she had seen him. 

“ No, mamma,” replied the girl ; “ I have not been 
farther than the store. I saw some of the hands around 
the boarding-house, though, and I thought they had 
just come from work. They quit now at half-past 
four.” 

Eurilda did not notice the troubled expression that 
crossed her mother’s face ; for her eye had caught sight 


THE MORNING COMETH. 


63 


of Jake through the window. “There he is now,” she 
exclaimed, straining her eyes to see through the dusk. 
She hastened to assist her mother with the tea. 

After some delay, Jake came in. 

“Are you not later than usual, my son?” asked 
the widow. 

“Later!” answered Jake, “how much later? I 
am sure it is not much later than it was last evening. 
Do you expect a fellow to get home every time just as 
the clock strikes, mother ? ” 

There was something so unusual in Jake’s manner 
that Eurilda exclaimed : 

“Why, Jake, what’s the matter?” 

“ Matter?” replied Jake, “ why, what ’s the matter 
with you and mother ? I am all right. Here it is just 
a little later than my usual time, and you both pounce 
upon me as though I had been into some mischief. I 
can ’t always get home at the same minute. ” 

Tears mounted to Eurilda’s eyes. Jake had never 
been so abrupt before. Mrs. Conway said nothing, but 
the troubled look on her face grew deeper. Jake saw 
it, and, as if ashamed of his ill-humor, sought to excuse 
it. “O never mind, ’Rilda. I declare I did not mean 
to be so short. I felt a little tired, too, mother, that ’s 
all. Those Italian fellows are enough to vex the life out 
of me. They pile upon the sled every night and want 
me to haul them up to the boarding house. It is too 
much for the old horse after a hard day’s work.” 

Eurilda’s cheerfulness immediately asserted itself. 
Naturally sympathetic, and always trusting her brother 
implicitly, she did not notice the equivocation that the 
more experienced mother did. A consciousness of his 
mother’s distrust made Jake hang his head. For once 


64 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the manly look with which he had been accustomea to 
face her was missing. 

But no word of reproof passed the widow’s lips. 
She was silent, and her silence oppressed Jake like a 
sultry day. 

The family sat down to tea. Eurilda attributed her 
mother’s silence to weariness. Mrs. Conway herself 
was troubled. She had compromised with sin in letting 
Jake go upon the railroad. The excuse she had made, 
and with which she had satisfied her conscience, seemed 
somehow to-night to be very trifling. The family were 
poor, it was true, but how little had she manifested her 
Christian faith ! Trembling at the shadow of adversity, 
she had exposed Jake to temptation and probably turned 
away his eyes from the waiting harvest fields of the 
Master. For. a moment the resolution entered her heart 
to forbid him to return to his work. But then came 
the thought, what could he do ? It was midwinter, 
and teaming for the road was the only industry that of- 
fered any remuneration. Fear triumphed over faith, 
and the widow remained silent. 

“ Oh, what a Quaker meeting!” exclaimed Furilda, 
when the silence was no longer endurable. “ This does 
not seem like tea-time at all. You must not let the 
Italians vex you, Jake, for when you do not feel well 
it makes mother so blue.” 

Mrs. Conway now spoke: I ought not to feel so, 
children, I know ; but you, Jake, can see how import- 
ant you are to the well being of our household. You 
are the head of the family, and it ’s no wonder I should 
feel a little bad when anything is wrong in a direction 
so vital.” There was something forced in the widow's 
remark, as if she spoke more to restore cheerfulness 


THE MORNING COMETH. 65 

than from a conviction that her sadness was without 
cause. Jake perceived this, but Eurilda did not. 

“O Jake!” exclaimed she, anxious, perhaps, to 
turn the thoughts of the family into more pleasant 
channels, I was in Mr. Dill’s store this afternoon, and 
do you know that he is fixing up that little side room ? 
He is painting it and putting in a counter at the back 
part. He is arranging new shelves back of the coun- 
ter, and has made a doorway to the cellar. What is he 
going to keep in there?” 

An expression as if a vague fear had been suddenly 
realized crossed Mrs. Conway’s face. 

Jake looked up surprised, and for a moment he 
blushed. '*Oh,” said he — and if Eurilda did not, Mrs. 
Conway certainly did detect an effort at evasion in the 
remark — guess Mr. Dill has to have more room, his 
business is increasing so. Rising Branch is growing, 
you know. The morning cometh, mother.” 

“Yes, Jacob,” said the widow, in a tone so solemn 
that Eurilda was startled, “ and, I fear, also the night.” 


CHAPTER Vm. 

AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 

February had come, and the weather continued very 
cold. Jake had not joined the hands who had gone to 
work in the woods. His enforced idleness was a source 
of discomfort to the family, not only because it cut off 
a much needed income, but because both Mrs. Conway 
and Eurilda saw that it affected Jake in an untoward 
manner. He was frequently absent from home, nor did 
he give any satisfactory account of himself 

He was waiting for the weather to moderate suffi- 
ciently to allow of work’s being resumed, when one 
morning Bob Loomis called at the cottage. His ob- 
ject was to summon Jake to help pile the ties that had 
been hauled along the railroad. 

“The old man told me to take a gang of fellers and 
tackle them ties, ” was his greeting to Jake. ‘ ‘ I thought 
as how measurin’ would be light work, so I cum fer ye,” 
said he, with a patronizing smile. 

How much his association with Bob had under- 
mined Jake’s sense of superiority was observable in his. 
reply. 


66 


AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 6/ 

^‘That's the ticket, Bob! I knew you wouldn’t 
forget me. I will not have to lift any, will I?” 

“Not a pound, answered Bob; “ I will set them 
Italians ter pilin’ and you and me will measure. Come 
on ; we won’t need the old horse to-day.” 

Mrs. Conway now came to the door. To her Bob 
made an awkward bow and said : “ Hornin’, ma’am ; I 
cum fer Jake. Seein’ as how he war laid off I thought 
I might give him a lift measurin’ ties.” 

“ Very well. Bob,” was the widow’s only reply. She 
then followed Jake into the house. Bob thought that 
he heard her say : “ I wish it were not so, Jacob.” Then 
followed some words that Bob could not understand. 

Jake appeared to be in no haste, so Bob thought, 
for a full quarter of an hour passed before he reap- 
peared, carrying his dinner pail. 

“ Yer must think I ’m an Eskimo,” said Bob, a lit- 
tle tartly. 

“Why didn’t you come in ?” replied Jake. “I 
wanted you to do so.” 

They started to their work, and presently Bob said : 
“The old lady has been objectin’ a little, hey, chick?” 

Jake’s face flushed. Bob had never before spoken 
lightly of Jake’s family. The boy’s native spirit as- 
serted itself. 

“Bob Loomis, you will either speak respectfully of 
my mother or you will part company with me.” 

Six months ago Bob’s reply would have been concil- 
iatory, but now he replied : “ Oh, hold on, sonny; yer 
ain’t ready ter lose the chance of makin’ that dollar 
yer owC Mike Follin.” 

Instantly Jake’s face changed. A look of surprise 
and guilt settled upon it. This was followed by a look 


68 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


of real despair, the quiescent look of an animal ex- 
hausted in trying to escape from a trap, 

“Who told you anything about that, Bob?” he 
asked, almost imploringly. 

“Why, yer green punkin,” answered Bob with a 
jeer, “did yer think that Mike war a goin’ ter keep it? 
But what’s the odds,” he continued, “if yer did swing 
a trump or two? It ’s no more nor some of yer best 
church members do.” 

“Who?” asked Jake, eagerly. 

“ Well, take old Sile Tribbey, fur instance ; he plays 
keerds to hum, and calls it soshal amoosement, or some- 
thing o’ that sort, but skin me fur a painter if I kin see 
why its any soshaller than playin’ over there in the cabin 
fur chips.” 

Jake’s face wore a look of relief. Mark it, you lib- 
eral, card-playing church members : That boy justified 
his first step in gambling by Elder Tribbey’s delinquency. 

“Bob,” said Jake, after they had nearly reached 
the scene of their labor, ‘ ‘ I am not going to play with 
Mike any more. ” 

“ Who are yer goin’ ter play with ?” asked Bob. 

“Nobody at all,” answered Jake ; “that was the first 
time I ever played, and it will be the last.” 

“Sho!” said Bob, “what’s bad about a game o’ 
keerds? If Mike are fool enough ter back yer out, 
why take him up, — that ’s my say on ’t. 

“I think that I was the fool,” rejoined Jake; “he 
beat me and won my money.” 

“So he did the last time,” laughed Bob, “but ye 
are sharp enough ter peel Mike if ye only practice a 
little. He are no hand at keerds.” 

“Not another game. Bob/’ was Jake’s emphatic re- 


AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 


69 


ply ; but Bob merely grinned. They had now arrived 
at the railroad, where a gang of Italian laborers had al- 
ready gathered. “ Whar’s Mike?” shouted Bob in a 
domineering tone. 

One of the Italians ventured a reply in very broken 
English. “ Mike no get up. He no come yet. Too 
much so,” and here the man made a motion as if drink- 
ing from a bottle. 

“Yer lyin’ Italian spalpeen!” shouted a voice at 
this moment, and the men looking up, behold 1 the de- 
linquent Mike was seen just back of the Italian ready to 
strike him with his fist. 

Bob sprang quickly to ward off the heavy blow, but 
he was too late. It descended with tremendous force. 
The laborer fell like a log, striking his head upon a tie 
and cutting a deep gash across his face. 

“See if yer ’ll lie to the boss anymore,” shouted 
the half drunken wretch, with a savage oath. 

The words were scarcely out of Mike’s mouth when 
the iron grip of the blacksmith closed around his neck 
and forced him on his knees to the ground. It was 
well that it was so ; for the remaining Italians, infuria- 
ted at the sight of their bleeding comrade, were about 
to rush upon him in a body. They stopped at the com- 
mand of Bob, but their threatening looks and deep 
mutterings boded no good to the intoxicated Irishman. 

“This are a pretty how d’ ye do,” said Bob, relax- 
ing his hold on the half strangled Mike. “ Has Dill been 
puttin’ his whiskey bar’ls on tap already? Yer tarnal 
fool, whar did yer get yer grog?” 

Mike blubbered forth an incoherent answer, but Bob 
gleaned from it that Dill had opened a barrel of liquor 
the day before and had filled several bottles for the hands. 


70 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


‘‘Seems to me Dill are a little in a hurry,” growled 
Bob ; “he had better wait till he gits his license. I 'm 
afraid the old man has made a mistake fixin’ it so that 
these varmints kin git likker at the village.” 

Mike had now arisen and was making his way to- 
ward a small board shanty hard by, whither the wounded 
Italian had also been conveyed. 

“Come back here,” shouted Bob, “if yerdon’t 
want yer fool head broke.” Mike obeyed, and as he 
did so his eyes fell upon Jake. 

“Hie, hello, Jake! why yer, hie, jes the feller I 
want ter see. Come over, hie, ter shanty and we 11, 
yes we’ll” .... The man could not finish the 
sentence, but sank reeling to the snow — dead drunk. 

The shame, the humiliation, the deep anguish that 
overspread Jake’s face at this moment, it is hard to de- 
scribe. Was this the company into which his tempo- 
rary turning away from a high purpose had thrown 
him ? Was it possible that he was indebted to this 
beast ? And such a debt ! A realization of his bond- 
age broke upon his soul. An impulse to rush away, 
confess all to his mother, and renounce his employ- 
ment forever was followed by a feeling of utter help- 
lessness. He was in the power of the Evil One ; he 
knew it, and it paralyzed him. 

He was roused from his reverie by Bob. “ Here, 
Jake, help me carry this fool inter the shanty.” 

Jake obeyed reluctantly, and the two, aided by one 
of the Italian workmen, deposited Mike in the shanty. 
The rough board structure had been built as a place 
where the hands might warm in cold weather. A 
cracked coal-stove occupied the center and was heated 
red-hot. On a rough board sat the wounded laborer, 


AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 


71 

who had now pretty well recovered and who scowled 
darkly upon his late assailant. 

The air of the shanty was stifling, and Jake was 
glad to get into the open air. 

Well, chicken,” said Bob to Jake, *‘that war 
well nigh a riot, war n’t it?” Jake was so ashamed and 
so bewildered that his answer was wholly irrelevant. 

Bob noticed this and asked: “Are ye skeered, 
Jake ? ” 

“ No,” answered Jake, “ but I wish I had not come 
out here this morning.” 

“Poh! yer goose, you would make a pretty boss, 
now, wouldn’t ye? I tell yer if yer ever expect ter 
manage men yer mustn’t turn girl when yer see a 
knock-down. ” 

Jake felt the stab, for he had spoken hopefully, in 
Bob’s presence, of becoming superintendent when Mr. 
Sarcott started his mills. The Italian who had been 
hurt was now able to join his comrades, and the men all 
began their work. But Jake Conway’s heart was heavy. 
He reproached himself for ever having been persuaded by 
Bob to work for Mr. Sarcott, yet he never thought of 
blaming his mother, who, at this very moment, was con- 
science-smitten for having given her consent to the pro- 
ject. 

At noon. Bob, instead of remaining and eating his 
dinner, left the men and went across to the village. 
When he returned he was accompanied by Mr. Sarcott. 
This gentleman, after inspecting the cords of ties piled 
for some distance along the railroads, entered the shanty. 

Poor Mike was still sleeping off the liquor he had 
taken, and snoring in blissful unconsciousness of the 
discharge that Mr. Sarcott ordered. 


72 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


When the old man,” as Bob now styled him, was 
about to go back to the village, he stopped beside a 
pile of ties that Jake was measuring. 

“ When you go home, my lad,” said he, kindly, ‘‘ I 
wish you would stop a few minutes at my house.” 

Jake bowed respectfully, but the summons only 
added to his mental distress. 

The day wore on till working hours were over. All 
hands were preparing to go home when Jake ventured 
to ask Bob: “What do you suppose he wants with 
me ?” 

“ Nothin’ that yer need ter be afraid of,” answered 
Bob. “He likes yer, Jake, and now put on all the 
slickness yer kin.” 

Whether this advice was to be applied to Jake’s 
clothes or to his conduct, Bob did not explain. 

The boy rang the bell at the residence of Mr. Sar- 
cott and was ushered up stairs by Nannie. “Papa, 
here’s Eurilda’s brother,” was that little lady’s an- 
nouncement. 

“Ah, yes; ah, yes, ” said Mr. Sarcott, advancing 
to meet Jake, “ he ought to be proud to be such a 
young lady’s brother.” 

“I am, sir,” said Jake with a boldness that startled 
even himself. 

“Exactly,” said Mr. Sarcott again; “I admire 
your manliness, my lad. Always be true to your sis- 
ter.” 

It must have been the reaction that affected Jake, 
for immediately after his remark he began to feel very 
uncomfortable. Perhaps this feeling was heightened 
by Mr. Sarcott’s own conduct, for he seemed laboring 
to give a reason for wanting Jake to call. 


AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 


73 


‘'Well, my boy,” said he, “I am told by Bob that 
you are a young man who will bear advancement in my 
service. I wanted to see you to-night. I want to ask 
more about your qualifications. Have you ever studied 
book-keeping? ” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Jake, “I studied it two terms 
at the Balsamtown Academy, but I never put it into 
practice.” 

“Well, maybe you will soon have a chance to do 
so. You had better brush up on it these long even- 
ings,” returned Mr. Sarcott. 

Jake’s gratified look furnished Mr. Sarcott with a 
pretext, so that gentleman continued : “I believe, my 
boy, that I will take you into my mill. I am going to 
build one immediately, and I will need an honest, ca- 
pable man whom I can train to be manager.” 

This lofty possibility, magnified by his own imagin- 
ation, removed whatever constraint Jake may have felt 
in Mr. Sarcott’s presence. 

This was exactly what the latter wanted. He soon 
found opportunity to draw from Jake the condition of 
the Conway family affairs. Jake told him freely of 
their financial condition, and expressed the hope that 
his own efforts in Mr. Sarcott’s employ would help 
them pay off the mortgage. 

To this Mr. Sarcott made no reply. Instead of 
that, he said, “Now, young man, I hope you will 
continue to conduct yourself as you have, and be sure 
to keep clear of the vices of the railroad hands. I 
must say that your work at present is among a hard 
set. You saw that this morning yourself” 

“Yes sir,” replied Jake. At the same time a real- 
ization of Mike Follin’s claim came over him. What if 


74 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Mr. Sarcott should find it out? Jake trembled at the 
possibility. A vague fear coupled with vexation at 
himself combined to make him irritable. In this 
humor he arrived at home. 

When Jake had gone, Mr. Sarcott began to pace 
the room. “The widow takes a great deal of interest 
in that boy,” said he, soliloquizing. “I’ll keep him 
near me. She ’ll follow pretty close.” He made two or 
three rounds of the room, then stopped near his desk, 
and stood absorbed in thought. “She don’t get down 
among the ‘brethren’ much while I keep the boy 
busy. Now if I can only keep the ‘ brethren ’ away 
from here ! I wonder if a few dollars would n’t make 
Sile Tribbey faithful to the ‘ old traditions ’? ”. Here 
Mr. Sarcott chuckled as if a new idea had suddenly 
seized him. 

“Fool!” The word echoed through the chamber 
with startling clearness. It seemed to come from the 
hall. 

Mr. Sarcott turned toward the door. The dark, 
lustrous eyes of Mary met his own. 

“Well!” said Mr. Sarcott, fiercely. 

“Well!” replied Mary, mockingly. 

“What do you want?” asked the former. 

“It’s a nice thing to believe you are an infidel, 
isn’t it, James?” was the answer. 

“To believe I am an infidel,” returned Mr. Sarcott ; 
“ what do you mean ? I am one. I never deny it.” 

“Yes you do,” retorted Mary; “you lie to your 
judgment so as to ease your conscience. Oh, it ’s so 
consoling to believe we ’re responsible for nothing ! It 
leaves us so free to carry out our pet schemes, you 
know.” 


AND ALSO THE NIGHT. 


75 


Mr. Sarcott was so astonished at the woman’s bold- 
ness that he stood hesitating. Mary gave him no 
chance to reply. “ What excellent advice you do give 
to that young man,” she added, with withering 
sarcasm. “You caution him against the vices of the 
railroad hands. Who has exposed him to them ? But 
then, there ’s no hereafter. Oh, no!” Mary vanished as 
suddenly as she had appeared, while a prolonged echo, 
“ Oh, no, no — no,” came back from the hall. 

Mr. Sarcott arose and shut the door violently. 

He was very angry. “If she wasn’t — well, never 
mind, I say she should leave this house.” He soon 
calmed himself and spoke in a lower tone: “I never 
said there is no hereafter. I do not have to be a Chris- 
tian to believe in God. But then the girl is a fool. 
What need I care ?” 

He now seated himself at his desk, with his favorite 
book ; but he seemed ill at ease. 

In the mean time quite a different scene was pass- 
ing at the village store. Mr. Dill had gotten his license 
and had opened his saloon. “Come, boys,” said he, 
early in the evening, “we’ll have a drink at my ex- 
pense to celebrate the occasion.” 

A crowd of laborers had assembled, among whom 
was the unfortunate Mike. He had recovered from the 
effects of his debauch sufficiently to realize that he had 
been discharged. Mr. Dill’s plan succeeded nicely, 
and the free liquor soon rendered the motley crowd 
both very thirsty and very liberal. Drink flowed freely. 
Mike, to drown his trouble, poured down the fiery 
liquid, and with each glass his ill humor seemed to 
arise. He cursed Mr. Sarcott, and finally turned his at- 
tention to the Italians, a few of whom were present. 


76 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


His eye ranged among them to find the man whom he 
had struck in the morning. He was not there. 

“Ye leather - faced furriners!” shouted Mike, 
“where’s the spalpeen I poonded forninst the shanty? 

It are the fault of him thet the ould man hez give me 
the boonce. ” At these words the intoxicated man ad- 
vanced with his hand upraised in a threatening manner. 
The Italians retreated, but Mike followed them up. 
Mr. Dill came from behind the counter to remonstrate. 

“Let me alone!” cried Mike; “let me give the 
blackguards the compliments av me fist.” 

He was close upon a tall Italian, who had turned 
fiercely around in the door and was fumbling in his red 
sash. 

“Look out, Mike I” 

The warning came too late ; there was a flash in the 
lamplight, a muttered curse, and the body of Mike fell 
heavily to the floor. At the same moment every Ital- 
ian fled. 

The first to lift the prostrate form was Bob. He 
had been present smoking, but it was noticed that he ^ 
had steadily refused to drink. 

“Bring some water, ye tarnal girl-baby,” cried he 
to Mr. Dill, who, in great trepidation stood wringing 
his hands. “ He are cut in the neck,” said Bob, “and 
I guess he are done fur. I guess yer did n’t look fur 
this in yer openin’ ‘programme.’ ” 

A doctor was hastily summoned. He appeared, 
accompanied by Mr. Sarcott. The night had come. 


CHAPTER IX. 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 

The news of the disgraceful occurrences at Rising 
Branch village spread rapidly through the neighbor- 
hood. Mike was not killed, but was so badly hurt that 
his getting well was a matter of doubt. Poor Dill was 
so badly frightened that he did not appear at the store 
the next morning. Mr. Sarcott, who visited him in 
his little bedroom, did not soothe his feelings. 

*‘To think of its happening. Dill, the very night you 
opened,” was that gentleman’s greeting. Where 
were your wits ? When you saw Mike was quarrel- 
some, why did n’t you order him out ?” 

Oh, do n’t speak of it,” said Mr. Dill, sitting up 
and untying his handkerchief from his head. ‘^It has 
broken me all up ; do you think that we will be in- 
dicted for riot, James? ” 

Mr. Sarcott’s reply was given with a look of con- 
tempt for such abject cowardice. 

Indicted for riot!” said he with intense disgust, 
‘'you ought to be indicted for being a fool. Don’t you 
§ee that the name of the village stands in more danger 


78 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


than your miserable little body on account of this 
fight?” 

‘^Well, yes, ” replied the storekeeper, cringing a 
little, *‘I thought of that, but then, James, you 
know — ” 

‘^Yes, I do know,” said Mr. Sarcott, cutting him 
off angrily. “I know that you care more for your 
own precious self than for the business interests of this 
village. This will be a pretty pry for the saints at 
Craggy Hill to get under my projects. Your wretched 
management threatens all the possibilities of growth 
here. ” 

“Why James,” whimpered the little man, “you 
advised me, you — ” 

“ I know I advised you,” said Mr. Sarcott, still 
more angrily, “but I supposed you had some sense. 
I wanted to help you make a good thing, and so it 
would be if properly managed, but you have got to 
have some nerve. You must let these fellows know 
that you run things and not they.” 

“When the whisky’s in the wit’s out, you know, 
James,” said Mr. Dill, timidly. “ We ought to have a 
police.” 

It was no source of satisfaction to Mr. Sarcott to 
think that a project which he himself had started 
should so soon show its dangerous side. He was angry; 
first because the danger had shown itself before the 
project had resulted in sufficient pecuniary gain, and 
second because he failed entirely to excuse his con- 
science. Not only this, but a keen insight into the 
effects of the brawl on the church question served to 
disturb his mind. 

His only answer to Mr. Dill was: “ Now get out 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 79 

of this coop as quick as you can, and open the store. 
Don’t act as if the plague had struck us.” 

He left Mr. Dill struggling with his fears, having 
first exacted a promise from him to open the store as 
though nothing had happened. 

Mr. Sarcott walked toward his home absorbed in 
thought. He looked like a man striving to rid himself 
of a painful recollection, and indeed he was ; for in 
spite of himself Uncle Joe’s words were ringing in his 
mind. The old oak tree, with its leafless branches 
lifted into the winter air, did not banish them. 

Yes, yes; I hev no doubt about its growin’, but 
let me tell ye, James, that in the shadder of its arthly 
prosperity the generation thet are cornin’ up will be- 
come as stunted as the bushes tryin’ ter grow in the 
shadder of that oak.” 

The bushes were covered with snow now, and the 
dull, cloudy day gave no shadow to the tree ; but still 
the words rang louder and louder in Mr. Sarcott’s 
mind. He reached his house and entered the great 
hall. 

^ ‘ Pshaw ! what foolish superstitions will haunt a 
fellow. This is the effect of some of the Sunday- 
school nonsense that they used to stuff into my head,” 
said he to himself, as he hung up his great-coat. But 
still the words were ringing in his soul. 

He went to his room, and thither he summoned 
David, the hostler, bidding him to hitch the horse to 
the sleigh. While he was waiting for David, Mary 
came in. Her dark eyes rested full upon Mr. Sarcott 
before he became aware of her presence. Her face 
wore the same pinched look as when we first met her, 
and her movements were slow and undecisive. But 


8o 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


there was a look about her that told plainly enough of 
more physical than mental infirmity, 

Mr. Sarcott was bending over his desk when her 
sharp voice startled him. 

‘‘Well, James, your young rosebush has bloomed 
early. That’s a nice flower it bore last night.” 

“What do you mean now?” said Mr. Sarcott, 
much irritated. 

“ What do I mean ? O James, just as if you did n’t 
know ! Of course you had nothing to do with getting 
Mr. Dill to start a saloon. ” 

“ Who said I had?” asked Mr. Sarcott, his face 
blazing with anger. “ What business have you to in- 
sinuate anything of the kind ? I tell you what, Mary ” 
— here his voice arose to a louder key — “ I want a stop 
put to this impertinence of yours. It is simply none 
of your business what I do or what I do not do, and I 
want you to understand it.” 

“Whose business is it?” inquired Mary, so calmly 
that Mr. Sarcott was perfectly nonplussed. 

“Well, ah well, none of yours,” he said, as if 
puzzled for a reply. 

“ None of mine ! You expect your boy home soon, 
to add him to the charges I already have. Oh, what 
an assistance a rum hole will be ! So handy, too. I am 
so thankful for your consideration. By the way, James, 
what a nice thing it is to disbelieve in God. One can 
do just as they please — ” 

“ Now that ’s enough harping upon that old string,” 
broke in Mr. Sarcott. “ As for the care of my children, 
you will be relieved of it sooner than you wish.” 

“Not in the way you expect, James Sarcott ; mark 
my words, not in the way you expect. You think I 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 


8l 


do not know your plans, but I do. I will be relieved 
of the care of your children sooner indeed than you 
think, but not in the manner you desire.” 

She turned abruptly and left the room. 

“What does the girl mean, anyhow?” said Mr. 
Sarcott to himself. “ I wonder if she has an idea of 
my plan. She ’s afraid of losing a home, I suppose. 
But no ; it can not be that. She knows that I dare not 
turn her out. Well, she is of little use to me in caring 
for the children, that ’s certain. Jennie dislikes her 
and Nannie has no fear of her. I must push matters, 
and that lively, too. This row will give me a good 
excuse for calling on the widow.” 

A smile played over Mr. Sarcott’s face, and it re- 
mained there when Nannie came to announce David 
with the horse. 

“ Papa, where you going ?” inquired the bright-eyed 
girl ; “ can ’t I go with you ?” 

“ Not to-day,” said her father stooping to kiss her. 
“ I may not be back before night, and it is too cold for 
you to be out so long.” 

“That’s just the way,” rejoined the child, a little 
pettishly. “I never get to go anywhere. There’s Jen- 
nie now, she ’s going this very night with Will Tim- 
mon’s in a sleigh, so she is.” 

“What do you say, Nannie?” asked Mr. Sarcott, 
pausing on the stairs. “Jennie has asked no per- 
mission of me. You go and tell her to come 
here.” 

In answer to Nannie’s summons Jennie appeared, 
wearing a look, it must be confessed, of defiance. 

“Jennie,” began her father, “ what is this that Nan- 


82 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


nie tells me ? Have you asked my permission in this 
matter ?” 

“ I did n’t think you would care,” answered Jennie, 
nowcasting her eyes to the floor. “Mr. Timmons 
and you are good friends, and Will is known to be as 
steady a young man as there is in Hanaford.” 

“ Well, where are you going?” asked Mr. Sarcott. 

“To a ball in Hanaford.” 

“ What ! Away over to Hanaford on a cold winter 
night? No, no, child, you are very foolish. I would 
rather you would ask me about things of this kind. I 
do not wish you to go. Hurry and write Will a note; 
it will go on this afternoon’s mail. Now mind me, my 
daughter.” 

At this very moment there came into Mr. Sarcott’s 
mind some of that same Sunday-school nonsense. A 
text floated into his memory up out of the years when 
a Christian mother had given him instruction — “ Honor 
thy father ” — it was on his lips, but no — how could he 
quote it to Jus child ? 

He staid no longer with his daughters, but, putting 
on his great-coat, entered the sleigh and drove off. 

“O you mean little wretch !” cried Jennie to Nan- 
nie, as soon as their father had gone. “ What made 
you tell papa ?” 

“You did not say I shouldn’t. Papa often lets you 
go to balls. I did not know that you would care.” 

This Nannie said with a very long face, indicating 
that the term “ wretch ” had stirred the inmost fount- 
ains of her soul. 

“ Well,” said Jennie, “ you might have knov/n that 
he would object to my going so far. But you have n’t 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 83 

a bit of sense. I am going, though, you ’ll see if I 
do n’t.” 

Nannie was weeping and too much stirred by her 
emotions to hear Jennie’s last sentence. The older sis- 
ter left Nannie to tell her troubles to Mary, and, still 
wearing her angry expression, went to her own room. 

In the meantime Mr. Sarcott drove on his way 
toward Craggy Hill. As his sleigh glided along he fell 
into his old habit of talking to himself. 

“Jennie needs more care; that’s certain. I am 
afraid my building a hail here will do her no good. She 
is too fond of dancing now. I have half a notion to 

send her off to school. I think I will ” He was 

going to say “until I get a better housekeeper,” but 
he paused and did not speak it aloud. He renewed his 
soliloquy presently, and said : “I think a new mother, 

such a one as . ” Here he ceased again as if in 

fear of being overheard. The sleigh-bells would have 
prevented this, nevertheless he only thought the rest. 

A mile beyond Craggy Hill lived Elder Tribbey, and 
Mr. Sarcott drove directly to his house. 

“Ah, Sarcott, how are you? how are you?” said 
the Elder, who had watched Mr. Sarcott’s approach and 
stood waiting for him at the gate. 

“Good-day, Squire,’^ said Mr. Sarcott. “How’s 
the rheumatism ?” 

“Oh, nothing to speak of ; the news from the vil- 
lage has driven it all out, I suppose ; but come in.” The 
two were soon seated by a roaring fire in the great room 
of the old farmhouse. The Elder brought a big pitcher 
of cider and set it upon the table. 

“Well, Squire, you are not as scrupulous as your 
friend or rather your brother Sales. He would think 


84 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


that performance the unpardonable sin,” laughed Mr. 
Sarcott. 

If there was any name that was distasteful to Elder 
Tribbey, it was that of Uncle Joe. This Mr. Sarcott 
well knew. 

Humph !” replied the Elder in disgust. Do you 
think that the old man Sales would miss a good drink 
of cider if he was sure nobody was looking?” 

“I don’t know as to that,” replied Mr. Sarcott 
merrily, “ but you are hard on the old fellow’s morals, 
are n’t you ?” 

‘‘Not a bit harder than he deserves,” returned the 
Elder. “ He is altogether too anxious to be regarded 
as a saint. And I, for one, am always suspicious of 
these exceedingly good fellows. By the way,” said the 
Elder, trying to turn the conversation, “ what have you 
fellows been trying to do at the village ?” 

“Oh, nothing,” answered Mr. Sarcott, who now 
had the Elder exactly where he wanted him. “ It was 
rather a serious thing for the Irishman ; it need not have 
happened, if Dill had been more careful. He should 
have ordered Mike out when he saw he was drunk.” 

“ Isn’t it likely to hurt business a little at the vil- 
lage?” asked the Elder. 

“Not a bit. Squire; not a bit,” said Mr. Sarcott 
with emphasis. ‘ ‘ It was a quarrel that might have ta- 
ken place anywhere. There is a matter, though, that 
is likely to hurt us a great deal more, and, by the way, 
this is what I came down to see you about.” 

The Elder was all interest. “What’s that, Sar- 
cott?” he asked, eagerly. 

Mr. Sarcott poured out a glass of cider, and taking 
a sip, held the glass in his hand while he spoke. 


TWO PIECES OF strategy. 


85 

I don t know how true it is,” he began, slowly, 
‘‘but they tell me that you fellows are going to build 
your new meeting-house up in the village.” 

“Well! what of that?” asked the Elder, in some 
surprise. “You seem to stand in need of it up there,” 
he added, laughing. 

“I am not so sure of that,” replied Mr. Sarcott. 
“A church is a good thing, no doubt ; that is, it is a 
good thing in its place. But it is like anything else, a 
bad thing when not in its place.” 

‘ ‘ Why, what do you mean ?” asked the Elder, some- 
what puzzled. 

“I mean,” said Mr. Sarcott, “just this: You can 
just as well build your house at Craggy Hill. It will do 
as much good there as anywhere. If you put it in the 
village you will endanger some strong business inter- 
ests. To be plainer, McCracken and Wale, of Hana- 
ford, told me the other day that they would not buy 
those lots that belong to you and the other fellows 
down here, and would build no factory, if a church 
were built in the village.” 

“ Why not?” questioned the Elder again. 

“ I do not presume to say why not,” answered Mr. 
Sarcott, “everybody has his own tastes, you know. 
Like Shylock, people do not always assign reasons for 
their tastes. I simply state the facts. If you build a 
church up there, those lots, that some of you down 
here have invested in, will not be worth much, I can 
tell you.” 

The Elder was touched in a tender spot. 

“What do you suppose those lots would bring, 
Sarcott ?” he asked, after a moments silence. 

“You could double your money on them now, if 


86 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


those Hanaford fellows do n’t go back on you,’’ was the 
reply. The Elder coughed slightly. Mr. Sarcott re- 
sumed. ''You see those lots across the creek are in 
competition with yours. Hanaford capital is bound to 
come to the Branch, but if you fellows build your 
church up there, the factories will go over on the other 
side of the creek. The water-power over there is about 
the same.” 

The Elder remained silent for some time, apparently 
lost in thought. Mr. Sarcott’s plans were working very 
well. Presently, however, the silence was broken with 
a thrust that brought from the Elder all that the wily 
villager sought. 

"I suppose, though,” said he, "that your church 
affair will be settled pretty much as old man Sales says. ” 

"Why?” asked the Elder, with a sudden start, 
" why so ?” 

Mr. Sarcott affected surprise. "Oh, I thought 
he was the chief man among you — the Mogul, so to 
speak.” 

The Elder did not attempt to conceal his disgust. 
"Chief among us ! ” said he with a sneer, "I don’t 
see how you got that idea. But you need not worry 
about the church’s going to the village. I have op- 
posed that for a long time. As far as the lots are con- 
cerned, I would not let their depreciation affect me in 
the least, but to tell the truth, Sarcott, I have always 
been opposed to the church’s going to Rising Branch 
village.” 

"Ah ! ” said Mr. Sarcott. 

" Indeed I have,” repeated the Elder, "and though 
I assure you that I don ’t care a fig for the business 
side of the matter, yet if you will feel any better, I 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 


87 

can guarantee that no move will be made with my con- 
sent. ” 

‘‘Well, it will be the best thing for the church 
itself,” said Mr. Sarcott, “and at the same time will 
be the best for the village. A jangle between the town 
and you fellows would be a bad thing for you.” 

Mr. Sarcott was putting on his coat while he said 
this. He now walked out to his sleigh, accompanied 
by the Elder, who reminded him that Uncle Joe was 
certainly not the “Mogul” of Craggy Hill. Indeed 
the good man even intimated that if such was the title 
of the leading spirit in the congregation, he might, not 
inappropriately, bear it himself. 

Mr. Sarcott bade him good-bye and. drove away. 
The sleigh-bells jingled merrily on the frosty air, and in 
their jingling was the echo of a laugh. 

‘ ‘ It will be a little late for me to call at the widow’s, ” 
said Mr. Sarcott, when he was fairly out of sight of the 
Elder. “I think I ’ll make a short call, though,” he 
concluded ; so toward the Conway cottage he directed 
his horse. 

The sun went down, and a cold north wind, bring- 
ing a few flurries of snow, betokened a stormy night. 
The hours wore on, the clock struck nine, and David 
still sat watching impatiently for the return of his 
master. 

The wind was fitful and irregular, now driving a 
dark mass of clouds over the moon, now filling the air 
thick with snow, and now clearing the heavens to a 
perfect blue. 

The shadows of the Sarcott house fell across the 
road and reached to Mr. Dill’s store, from which a 
bright light streamed forth to be swallowed up by them. 


88 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


A gust of wind and a flurry of snow came from the 
north. As if it had been blown hither, a single sleigh 
appeared in the shadows close to the gate of the front 
yard. There was a low whistle, answered by a light 
that burned for an instant in the upper room. The 
muffled figure in the sleigh sat motionless. A moment 
elapsed, and from the side of the house beyond the 
store emerged another figure. 

‘‘O Will!” said Jennie in a whisper, was so 
fearful you would not get my note and would come 
straight in. Papa is gone, but I expect him every 
minute, so let us hurry.” 

Where’s Mary and Nannie?” asked Will. 

Nannie is asleep and Mary’s in the kitchen read- 
ing. She thinks I have gone to bed.” 

The young man had driven toward the store, in 
front of which he now stopped his horse. 

Oh, where are you going, Will ? ” asked Jennie, in 
alarm. 

‘‘Just to see Dill’s new store a moment. Here, 
hold the horse ; I will not be gone long.” 

“But, Will,” remonstrated Jennie, “papa may 
come along at any moment.” 

“Suppose he does; cover up your head and he 
will not know you. This is a strange horse and he can 
not tell the rig;” 

The young fellow ran into the store without wait- 
ing to hear Jennie any more. He was gone but a mo- 
ment, but it seemed an age to the guilty girl. 

‘ ‘ O Will, what do you scare me so for ? ” she asked. 
“ What did you want in there, anyhow? ” 

‘ ‘ I only wanted to see the new bar-room, ” answered 


Will, 


TWO PIECES OF STRATEGY. 89 

There was a smell of cloves in his breath, and Jen- 
nie suspected what she dare not accuse him of. 

“We must get back by two o’clock, Will, and you 
must help get into the house,” was her only remark. 

The sleigh sped away toward Hanaford. Nannie 
was sleeping quietly in her little room. Mary still sat 
reading. David stormed and swore at his dilatory 
master ; but that master still sat talking to the Conway 
family in the little cottage. He was in a very good 
humor, and Eurilda wondered that he used to seem so 
distant. Again the wind blew a dark mass of clouds 
across the moon ; it was at the very moment that Mr. 
Sarcott came out of the cottage. 

“ Ah,” said he, “it is getting dark.” He glanced 
at the moon struggling in the shadows. In a moment 
its light was gone. A huge cloud had completely 
darkened its face. A change came over the man’s feel- 
ings. Yes, I say a change ; for he did not fail to read 
that symbolism in the skies. 

“ Pooh ! ” he exclaimed, as he gave his horse to the 
impatient hostler, ‘ ‘ I wish these foolish superstitions 
would not affect me so.” 


CHAPTER X. 

AN UNUSUAL VISITOR. 

Mr. Sarcott was not a stranger to the Conway cot- 
tage ; he had been neighborly enough in the lifetime of 
Mr. Conway, but since his death the distance between 
the families had gradually widened. Moreover, Mr. 
Sarcott’s wife had maintained a social connection with 
the Conways, which had lasted till her death. Mrs. 
Sarcott, like Mrs. Conway, had been religious, and the 
tie of Christian fellowship thus broken could not be 
renewed by the infidel husband. Possibly poverty 
may have played its part, for the Sarcotts were rich 
and the Conways poor. At any rate the visits of the 
Sarcott children to the home of the Conways gradually 
ceased. Anna Sarcott had gone away to school. She 
was nearer Eurilda’s age than were Jennie and Nannie; 
and the sons of Mr. Sarcott, even had they remained 
at home, could have little in common with Jake, whom 
they remembered merely as a little boy. 

It was no wonder, then, that Mr. Sarcott, as he 
drove homeward from Elder Tribbey’s, found himself 
puzzled for an excuse to call at the Conway home. 


90 


AN UNUSUAL VISITOR 


91 


Do not think, dear reader, that the tender sentiment 
of love had taken possession of Mr. Sarcott. He was 
far too selfish and scheming for that. He had known 
the widow in her more prosperous days ; and scoff as 
he might at the faith that had sustained her in her 
troubles, yet he recognized the value of a character 
like hers in a household like his own. The tendencies 
of his children were painfully apparent, and now his 
love for gold, — aye, that was it, his love for gold — was 
about to lead him to put new temptations into their 
path. There was money in the saloon ; more money 
in a new dancing hall — but his children — there was the 
rub. Yet he chuckled to think that he was equal to 
the occasion. He would make money with one hand 
and protect his children with the other. The widow’s 
influence in his house should stand against the influences 
without. O foolish man ! O selfish man ! The words 
rang for a moment in his soul, but only for a moment ; 
the tempter whispered “go on ! ” and the voice was 
hushed ; and the cold wind blew from the east ; and 
the night thickened ; and the sound of the sleigh-bells 
was all that the great man heard. 

It was fully dark when he arrived at the little cot- 
tage. Tying his horse, he approached the door — not 
without embarrassment, for he was still pondering an 
excuse for his unusual call. Jake came to the door, 
and was not a little surprised to see his employer. But 
Jake’s surprise was slight compared with that of 
Eurilda and her mother. Mr. Sarcott saw at once the 
expression of their faces, and at once relieved the situa- 
tion by exclaiming : “Don’t be astonished to see an 
old neighbor, even if he is a little delinquent in his 
calls.” 


92 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“Indeed it is an unusual thing to see you in our 
house, Mr. Sarcott,” replied Mrs. Conway, recovering 
a little and setting a chair for him. “ It seems that since 
Simon and your Mary are gone you have almost for- 
gotten us.” 

“Oh, no, Amelia,” answered Mr. Sarcott, address- 
ing her as had been his custom in time past, “not so 
bad as that; I know I have not dropped in often — ” 

“You have not been here these three years,” said 
Mrs. Conway, interrupting him. 

“ Indeed,” returned Mr. Sarcott, “is it so long as 
that? Well, I have been busy; but then, Amelia, I 
have known every day how you and your children 
have been, and as for the mere matter of visiting, you 
know that my older children are not at home and 
Jennie and Nannie seldom go anywhere. Perhaps I 
should not have called now, but I thought that you, 
like everybody else, would be disturbed over the 
trouble in the store last night. Common calamities 
bring old friends together, you know.” 

“ Oh, it was terrible !” replied the widow. “ I am so 
thankful that Jacob was not there. Indeed, James, I 
am worried a great deal when I think of the tempta- 
tions this world throws into the path of our children.” 

Unconsciously, indeed, had the widow, b> this re 
mark, given to Mr. Sarcott the opportunity he sought. 

“ Here is a go,” said the wily man, inwardly. “ If I 
can do nothing else I can play the Christian duty game 
on her. Maybe I can persuade her that she . can fight 
Apollyon for two sets of pilgrims.” Aloud he re- 
marked: “Yes, Amelia; but if everybody were like 
you, our children would get along all right. ” 

“ Why, what do you mean, James? ” 


AN UNUSUAL VISITOR. 


93 


“Oh, your influence over children is good,” re- 
joined Mr. Sarcott. “I often think that, seeing it is 
woman’s duty to direct the training of children, it is 
a fine thing that they take to religion easier than men. 
I don’t believe much in the communion of saints my- 
self, but then I have no doubt that your Christianity 
helps to keep things even here on earth and probably 
turns your heads away from mischief.” 

“I am sorry, James,” replied the widow, “that 
you have none of that faith which was so strong in 
your wife, especially when you have the care of two 
comparatively young children on your hands.” 

A less thoughtful man than Mr. Sarcott might have 
seized the opportunity at this point to bring matters to 
a crisis, but Mr. Sarcott was too cautious for this. He 
had satisfied himself that the widow’s love for her own 
children, coupled with her sense of Christian duty, was 
the line along which he could best conduct his plans. 
“ If I can keep Craggy Hill influences from reaching 
her,” thought he, “I will make this matter successful.’* 
To the widow’s remark he did not reply, but sat for 
a while looking thoughtfully into the bright coal fire. 

Presently he spoke: “I suppose the brethren at 
Craggy Hill have about settled on the place of build- 
ing, have they not? ” 

“Not yet,” replied Mrs. Conway; “but I hope 
that they soon may, and that our village will no longer 
bear the reproach of being without a place of wor- 
ship.” 

Mr. Sarcott smiled, but the widow neither noticed 
nor interpreted the smile. She continued: “I will 
be glad enough to attend chnrch when the house is 


94 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


nearer, for Jake finds it a hard task for the old horse to 
go on the Lord’s day beside working all the week.” 

“The old horse has not done much this cold 
weather,” said Mr. Sarcott. 

“No,” said the widow, “and for that reason I have 
been able to attend church nearly every week ; and it 
does me so much good,” added she, after a pause. 

Mr. Sarcott remained silent. “I suspected as 
much,” thought he. “I must keep her away from 
Craggy Hill. The saints down there are no friends of 
mine.” 

“Well, Amelia,” said the schemer aloud, “my 
principal business here to-night is to talk to you about 
your son. ” 

A look of anxious inquiry crossed the widow’s face, 
which Mr. Sarcott noticed. 

“Oh, the boy has been in no trouble,” said he 
quickly. “I am glad to say that he minds his own 
business and does not loaf about the village at night ; 
I have another matter entirely that I wish to speak 
about.” The anxious look did not leave Mrs. Con- 
way’s face, however, and Mr. Sarcott continued. 

Both Jake and Eurilda had retired to the kitchen 
very soon after Mr. Sarcott’s entrance, for neither of 
them could associate a visit from him with anything 
other than some business pertaining to the mortgage. 
To the widow alone Mr. Sarcott made known his plan. 

“ Amelia, ” said he, “you know that I have ar- 
ranged to build a mill here at the village, and beside 
this I have another project in mind. Parties from 
Hanaford are of the opinion that a woolen factory here 
will be a paying investment, and we are about to or- 
ganize a stock company for this purpose. Now, we are 


AN UNUSUAL VISITOR. 


95 


going to open the subscription books in Hanaford next 
week, and I want to put Jake in charge of this busi- 
ness over there.” 

The widow’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. 

Why James, Jake is not ” 

“Jake is perfectly capable of doing the work I 
want done,’^ said Mr. Sarcott, cutting short her re- 
mark ; “ besides, it will fit him for a work of greater 
responsibility in my mill. I tell you, Amelia, your 
boy has ability, and now, as a friend to his father, I 
am willing to bring him to the front. Of course this 
will take him away from home some, but with your 
daughter here you can contrive to get along until he 
returns.” 

Again the struggle between faith and necessity be- 
gan in the widow’s heart. Would not the temptations 
in a town like Hanaford be greater than any to which 
he had yet been exposed ? She and Eurilda could get 
along, but to think of Jake absent among strangers! 

But on the other hand there were the family cir- 
cumstances. Without Jake’s help, what could be done? 
The mortgage hung like a cloud over the little home, 
and of the small amount that Mr. Conway had left at 
his death there was but a trifle left. Bad as all this 
was, another thing troubled the widow far more. Was 
not Jake already drifting away from his intention of 
preaching the gospel ? How would his first choice be 
affected by this new plan ? 

Mr. Sarcott observed the widow’s silence, and 
guessing the cause, observed: “Jake can command 
more wages, of course, than he gets now; indeed I 
can afford to pay him well.” 

On the table lay a dress, the widow’s best, which 


96 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


she had been mending when Mr. Sarcott knocked. She 
glanced at it, and again a sense of her poverty came 
over her. She knew, too, that Eurilda’s wardrobe was 
but scanty. How could she do otherwise than let 
Jake go ? She looked around the room with an em - 
barrassed look, as though she sought some one from 
whom she might ask advice. 

“O James,” said she at length, “I need more 
time to think of it. If I could only consult some of 
my friends.” 

“ Who ? ” asked Mr. Sarcott, eying her sharply. 

“ Uncle Joe Sales has always been a friend to our 
family, ” answered the widow, innocently, “ and he has 
been my best counselor since Simon died.” 

Mr. Sarcott bit his lip, but he repressed his anger, 
and replied calmly : 

“Oh, as to that, Amelia, I do not know why a 
woman of your judgment can not manage her own 
affairs. Uncle Joe is a good old man in his way, no 
doubt, but then he would naturally be prejudiced against 
me. Your religionists are very narrow, say what 
you will. I was a friend to your husband, as you well 
know. I certainly am anxious to do his family a kind- 
ness. You may make a grave mistake in your judg- 
ment and fail in your duty toward your boy, if you 
prevent his seizing so good an opportunity.” 

Poor Mrs. Conway was confused. Reader, do not 
blame her if she yielded. 

“ Well,” said she, with an air of abstraction, “per- 
haps it will be best, if Jake wants to go.” 

“Well, you can mention it to him in the morning,” 
said Mr. Sarcott; “and now there is another matter. 
If Jake should go over to Hanaford, it will be too much 


AN UNUSUAL VISITOR. 


97 


of a task for you and your daughter to take care of the 
old horse. One of Bob Loomis’s horses is sick, and if 
the weather opens I will be a little short of teams on 
the railroad. You had better let me take the horse for 
Bob. It will save his feed and add to your income.” 

*‘But, James,” said the widow earnestly, “I want 
the old horse. Eurilda and I would far rather manage 
him than lose the opportunity of attending church.” 

''You can go with Colby Haines,” replied Mr. Sar- 
cott. " He will be glad to take you.” 

" But, ” replied the widow, "Colby is so irregular 
since he moved to the village.” 

" Oh, well, his family all go to church every Sun- 
day,” rejoined Mr. Sarcott. And the widow yielded 
again. And Mr. Sarcott chuckled inwardly. 

He left the house and entered the sleigh, which 
Jake had brought around from the friendly shelter of a 
shed. 

The night was growing colder, and the bells tinkled 
merrily between the irregular gusts of wind that drove 
great patches of clouds across the moon. Mr. Sarcott 
was in high spirits. 

Jake and Eurilda listened in great surprise to their 
mother’s revelation after their visitor had gone. 

"Good!” said Jake. "It will be just the thing, 
mother. I tell you I don’t believe that Mr. Sarcott is 
half as bad a man as some people make him out,” 

"But, Jake,” said Eurilda, and her face was even 
more troubled than her mother’s, "I am afraid that 
if you do this you will give up your intention of 
preaching. ” 

"Oh, dear, ” answered Jake petulantly, "suppose 


98 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


I do, ’Rilda, can’t I be good even if I don’t preach? 
I should think, too, that in our circumstances the first 
thing to be looked at is to get our home into shape 
again. ” 

“O Jake, ” said the girl, running up and throwing 
her hands around his neck, “it was father’s wish, and 
one of his last, too, that you should preach the gospel. 
As to our home, have you forgotten the promises of 
God ? O mother, do not give your final consent. I 
know we are poor, but God has never forsaken us yet, 
and He never will.” 

The dark hair of the girl, becoming unfastened, fell 
in long tresses on her shoulders, her eyes gleamed as 
if an inspiration were firing her heart, and she clung to 
Jake as though she feared that the evil impending over 
the household might take shape and carry him away. 
Mrs. Conway was not only astonished, but alarmed. 

Jake loosened Eurilda’s arms, and exclaimed : 
“ Why, Eurilda Conway, what do you mean ?” 

“Just what I say, Jake, ’’ replied the girl, a little 
more calmly. ‘ ‘ I know that if you do this you will 
not preach. You may think you will come back and 
follow out your old resolution, but I know you never 
will.” 

“ How do you know it?” asked Jake, half frightened 
and half vexed. 

“ I can not use language to tell why,” said Eurilda, 
“but I know you never will; and, O mother, you 
know, too, how father always wished it.” 

Mrs. Conway was deeply rebuked by this unlooked 
for outburst of faith on the part of Eurilda. She 
was ashamed at the weakness that so often betrayed 
her into compromising Jake’s future, and now she 


AN UNUSUAL VISITOR 


99 


dared not own that she had absolutely given her con- 
sent to Mr. Sarcott’s plan. 

Before she became collected enough to speak, how- 
ever, Eurilda recovered her own composure. The 
storm that had swept across her heart left no trace of 
cloud behind it. Slowly she gathered up her hair, 
fastened it and sat down before her mother. 

“Mother,” said she, fixing her dark eyes upon the 
sorely confused widow, “I have a plan that will per- 
haps help us out of our troubles ” 

“Why, what in the world, ’Rilda,” said Jake inter- 
rupting her, “has got into you ? We are not so bad 
off yet. You talk as though you and ma were going 
to the poor-house and I to perdition,” The clock 
struck ten just as Jake made this remark. 

“Eurilda,” said the mother, quietly, “we are all 
too confused and disturbed to talk longer upon this 
subject without seeking counsel from God. Let us 
have our evening prayer, and after we sleep we may 
be better fitted to act.” 

To Jake this was not agreeable. 

“O mother,” said he quickly, “you and ’Rilda 
always take everything so gravely. If you have 
promised Mr. Sarcott that I could go, you had better 
stick to your word ; and as for my preaching, I don’t 
see that I must necessarily give that up.” 

Yet Jake in his heart knew better than this. His 
past conduct in relation with Mike Follin was arising 
before him and becoming a barrier in his path to the 
pulpit. He knew that his late associations had ren- 
dered even a religious life distasteful, yet he did not 
know his danger. He sincerely thought that he could 
follow Mr. Sarcott’s plan awhile and return again to 


lOO 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the path first marked out for him by his father. But 
the subject was dropped for the night, and the Conway 
family united in their usual devotions. 

David, Mr. Sarcott’s hostler, had finished putting 
away his master’s horse, but he continued to grumble 
while he went his rounds to see that all was safe about 
the barn before retiring. It was midnight before he 
sought his lodge over the great stable. He was par- 
tially disrobed when he started at the sound of a 
horse’s hoofs. Looking toward the road he saw a 
sleigh driven into the deep shadow of the house. A 
closely wrapped form descended from it. There was a 
hurried consultation with another form remaining in it, 
and then the first disappeared in the shadow. The 
sleigh drove away, and David opened his eyes with 
astonishment. 

Wall, Jinnie, yer purty well bundled up, but I’d 
know yer walk if I saw yer in Europe.” 


CHAPTER XL 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. 

It was with eyes wide open with astonishment that 
Uncle Joe Sales listened to a recital of the tragedy at 
Rising Branch. On the same morning that Mr. Sarcott 
had started out to lay his plans so deftly, Andy Pike, 
who had been at the village, rode homeward past Craggy 
Hill and furnished the exciting news. Uncle Joe lost 
no time in imparting it to Aunt Samantha. 

“The Lord be with us!” was her pious ejaculation, 
“ hez it come to this so soon, Joseph ?” 

“It hez,” was the old man’s reply, “and I thank 
God fur it.” 

“What?” exclaimed Aunt Samantha with a cry of 
surprise, “ what do ye say, Joseph ?” She half arose 
from her chair and caught Uncle Joe’s arm. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, Samantha,” said he, releasing 
her convulsive clutch, “ I am in my right senses, and I 
say again I thank God fur this kerlamity.” 

“ Joseph,” said Aunt Samantha, “I don’t under- 
stand ye. Why are ye thankin^ God fur the murder of 
this poor humin ?” 


lOI 


102 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


* * It ain ’t for the murder of a humin bein’, Samantha ; 
no, not fur that. I pity the poor feller that hez been 
sacrificed ter the greediness of these money vultures, 
but Samantha, I can’t help believen’ thet he hez died 
fur the savin’ of the albeit he hezn ’t done it wil- 
lin’ly.” 

‘‘ But he hez not died yet, so Andy tells ye.” 

^‘No, ” continued Uncle Joe, "‘ but if he does die, it 
will mebbe open the eyes of James Sarcott to the truth 
of what I hev told him, and pave the way ferthe breth- 
rin at the church to come to a righteous decision. O 
Samantha, I feel as though I couldn ’t hev it any other 
way! What will Risin’ Branch be without God’s cause 
is planted there ? Satan hez got a good start of us even 
as it is, and we will have hard work to catch him. 
But Samantha, I feel that this thing is a diversion oi 
God in our favor. The evil effects hev showed them- 
selves sooner than I thought, and facts is more than ar- 
gyments. But Samantha, listen, I ’ve somethin’ else 
ter tell ye. Somethin’ that will be for the openin’ of 
some of the brethrin’s eyes, and specially Silas Trib- 
bey’s. ” 

Aunt Samantha lifted her spectacles and pushed 
them back upon her head, while Uncle Joe drew a chair 
before her and sat down ; then he solemnly raised his 
forefinger in token of the great importance of what he 
was about to reveal. 

'‘You know last week when I went over to Hana- 
ford ter git them harniss mended ?” 

“Yes,” nodded the good old woman. 

“Well,” said Uncle Joe, “that day I was in at 
McCracken and Wale’s. Now McCracken, so they 
tell me, hez a little leanin’ toward the church. His 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. 


103 


wife are a member. He and Wale was a talkin,’ and 
without wantin’ ter be an eavesdropper, I could ’nt help 
bearin’ a bit of their conversation.” 

“ ‘ McCracken,’ said Wale, ‘they say they are goin’ 
to tear down the old Craggy Hill meetin’ house and 
build agin up at Risin’ Branch.’ 

“ ‘ I hope they will,’ said McCracken, ‘specially if 
we take a notion to build a factory over there.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ put in Wale, ‘ the best hands we hev here 
are them fellers that belong ter Jones’ church down 
there by the bridge. But I heard that Jim Sarcott was 
fightin’ ’em over to the Branch, and tryin’ ter keep a 
meetin’ house out of the village.’ 

“‘Oh, well,’ said McCracken, lettin’ the very cat 
out o’ the sack thet I showed ye long ago, Samantha, 
‘Oh, well,’ said he, ‘Jim Sarcott wants the widder 
Conway, and he ’s afraid if the church comes up there 
the members will set her agin him, fer he ’s a infidel of 
the worst kind. ’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ said Wale, ‘he’s a fool, if he a infidel. 
He ’d better not oppose their church ; he ’ll lose- more 
in the long run than he ’ll gain. I heard that they were 
goin’ ter have a saloon over there. He ’d better oppose 
that.’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir-ee, ’ I heard McCracken say, ‘ I saw that 
young Timmons that trots over there to see one of Jim’s 
girls drunk as a fool the other day.’ I was obliged to 
make known my business at this point fer fear they’d 
think I was listenin, ” said the old man, ‘ ‘ and so I did n’t 
hear no more.” 

Not two hours after Uncle Joe had related his 
conversation to Aunt Samantha, Mr. Sareott sat in 
Elder Tribbey ’s house and told him the matter concern- 


104 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


ing McCracken and Wale, which our readers now see 
was a sheer fabrication. 

“But Joseph,” asked Aunt Samantha, “how will 
this open Bro. Tribbey’s eyes ?” 

“Ye see, Samantha,” answered Uncle Joe; “the 
thing of it are just here: Silas Tribbey has been bitin’ 
at some of James Sarcott’s bait, and hez bought some 
of them village lots. He is expectin’ to make some 
money on them by sellin’ of them to some o’ them fel- 
lers in Hanaford to build a mill and a factory on. 
Mebbe if spiritual considerations won’t move him, the 
hope of arthly gain will. In either case we will get 
what we want.” 

“Well, Joseph,” remarked his wife, solemnly, “the 
Lord does appear to be workin’ fur His own cause. I 
hope thet ye will be able to use these instruments so 
as ter be successful.’^ 

“Never fear that, Samantha,” replied the old man, 
and he chuckled a little as if feeling perfectly confident 
of success. Indeed he did feel exactly that way. He 
now had no doubt that he possessed a lever that would 
move Elder Tribbey, while he had not the slightest 
idea that any of the other brethren would, 'in view of 
the occurrence at the village, hesitate any longer to 
vote for a removal. 

Even in the midst of his exultation, however, his 
old-time enemy came back to vex him. Was he not 
doing it all for his self-glorification ? Why was he ex- 
ultant ? Was it because the cause of the Lord bade 
fair to succeed, or was it because he had gained an ad- 
vantage over his opponents? It was some time before 
he could overcome these feelings, but Aunt Samantha, 
who had not been slow to notice the change in his 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. IO5 

mood, only attributed it to his well known habits of 
meditation. 

The old couple had sat quiet for nearly an hour, 
Aunt Samantha reading her Bible, and Uncle Joe, 
though ‘ ‘ wrestling, ” as we have seen, yet apparently lost 
in thought. Presently the aged wife broke the silence : 

“Joseph,” said she, “ye was tellin’ me that the 
hull matter was restin’ on the say of Anthony Gimler. 
If he was a wantin’ more light, as he said, I can ’t help 
feelin’ that the Lord hez furnished it ter him by lettin’ 
this thing happen.” 

“Perhaps he hez,” answered Uncle Joe, “but I 
fear that Bro. Anthony war more afraid of offendin’ 
Silas than he war in need of more light. It are Silas _ 
that I want ter work with, Samantha, and I think I kin 
do it.” 

Aunt Samantha lapsed into silence again, and pres- 
ently Uncle Joe left her and went to attend to some of 
the simple duties of his farm. 

The short February day rapidly spent itself, hurried 
on to its close by fitful gusts of wind and squalls of 
snow. Now and then the dull clouds parted, show- 
ing great patches of blue sky across which the driving 
snow-flakes chased each other in confusion. As eve- 
ning approached the sky grew clearer and the air 
crisper. Still occasional clouds brought flurries of 
snow from the North. The stars came out and the moon 
arose. Now she glided like a white ship over a broad 
expanse of ocean, and now plunged into the irregular 
banks of clouds as fated ships plunge into the mists that 
skirt rocky islands and dangerous coasts. 

Uncle Joe had finished his evening’s work and had 
sought his fireside with the county paper in his hand. 


io6 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Aunt Samantha was busily knitting. Mr. -Sarcott’s 
sleigh had just arrived at the widow Conway’s and that 
gentlemen was preparing to enter the cottage. It was 
night again in Rising Branch — but what a night ! 

The fire burned low in the chimney-place of Uncle 
Joe’s big kitchen. Aunt Samantha’s knitting lay in her 
lap while the old house cat pawed the ball of yarn that 
had fallen upon the floor. Uncle Joe nodded and his 
paper hung dangerously near the coals of the hearth. 

Suddenly Aunt Samantha started and threw up her 
hands. The knitting fell to the floor, startling Uncle 
Joe, who sprang to catch the reeling form of his wife. 
The heavy arm-chair was overturned and the frightened 
cat rushed frantically to the door. Uncle Joe eased 
the form of his wife as it sank to the floor, then hastily 
entering a side room, he returned with a pillow and a 
small bottle. 

“She hez taken another spell,” said he, kneeling 
by her side and rubbing her head with the contents of 
the bottle. In two or three minutes the deathly pallor 
on the aged wife’s cheek had given way to a more nat- 
ural hue. Uncle Joe gently lifted her up and seated 
her in the big chair. 

“ Call John’s folks, she whispered with difflculty. 
“I am better now, but you are alone and Lisette is a 
good hand when I have these spells.” 

The effort exhausted Aunt Samantha and for a few 
minutes she sat struggling for breath. She soon be- 
came much easier; then Uncle Joe, setting a lamp in 
the kitchen window, hastily drew on his big boots and 
ran rapidly across the field that separated his house 
from John Tone’s. It was the work of a few moments 
to summon these two good neighbors and they arrived 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. lO/ 

in time to render material assistance to Aunt Samantha, 
who had been attacked again. 

“ I must fetch Dr. Hosier,” said Uncle Joe, making 
preparations to go to the barn. Aunt Samantha shook 
her head. 

“ Who then, Samantha?” The old lady motioned 
to Mrs. Tone, who bent down close to her ear. 

Peters!” said the sufferer. 

“Oh, laws a’ goodness, Aunt Samantha, he ’s one 
of them homypaths!” 

^‘Does she want Peters?” asked Uncle Joe. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tone, “but ” 

“ Let her have her way, ” said the old man, “Peters 
lives up on the Hanaford road and it is a mile closer 
than the village.” 

“But Joseph,” remonstrated Mrs. Tone, “since 
when hev ye taken to these homypaths?” But Uncle 
Joe was out of sight and hearing in so short a time that 
the good neighbor was obliged to smother her prejudice 
and attend to her sick charge. 

Uncle Joe’s sleigh was soon speeding up toward the 
Hanaford road. The old horse, unused to the repeated 
taps of the whip, resented them by taking the bit into 
his mouth, and breaking into a lively gallop. Uncle 
Joe’s hair streamed backward in the wind. The sleigh 
jolted over the rough knots, giving the appearance of a 
runaway to the ancient-looking horse and his master. 

The wind blew Uncle Joe’s hat over his eyes, and a 
flurry of snow almost blinded him just at the moment 
that he turned into the big road leading to Hanaford. 
Hastily reaching for his hat the reins fell from his be- 
numbed hand, and the old horse sprang forward at an 
increased gallop. 


I08 THE WHITE CHURCH. 

“Ho!” crash I and Uncle Joe’s heavy sleigh came 
to a standstill so suddenly as to pitch the occupant 
heavily forward upon the dashboard. At the same 
moment he was conscious of a lighter sleigh turned up- 
side down but with its horse’s head just abreast of him. 
He hastily leaped from his own sleigh and caught the 
strange horse by the bridle. Righting the vehicle, 
which was wholly uninjured, he assisted its occupants’ 
a young man and woman, to their feet. 

Hardly had the latter caught sight of the aged form 
before him than he broke forth with a torrent of abuse, 
mingled with curses. 

“You old fool, what you tryin’ to do, you gray hea- 
headed (hie) lu-unatic (hie) is n’t a big r-r-road wide 
enough ?” 

“ Sh 1 Will’ sh I O Will!” and the young woman 
tried to whisper in his ear, and at the same time she 
drew her shawl closely around her head and shoulders. 

“What, what! tut, tut! my child; I think ye need 
ter train him a good deal,” spoke up the old man. 
“Oh, I know ye, child ; ye need n’t try ter hide yer face, 
unless fur shame of yer company. I have known ye, Jen- 
nie, since ye were a baby, and yer good mother would 
have drownded ye with her tears when ye war born, 
if she could have looked forward an’ seen this night.” 

Not another word did the two speak, but hastily re- 
entering their sleigh they left Uncle Joe in the road. 
He adjusted his harness and resumed his journey. 

“Ah, James Sarcott, may the Lord open yer eyes 
before the day of trouble thet ye ’re bringin’ on yerself 
shall open before ye.” 

An hour later Uncle Joe was at home again with 
Dr. Peters. 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. 


109 


“He, he, he!” laughed David, the hostler, as the 
muffled form of Jennie disappeared from view, “ these 
youngsters think they ’re mighty sharp, but they ain ’t 
got wit enough fur a calf. Now when I war young an’ 
fixed ter take a young lady ter a dance on the sly I 
didn ’t git spied out no sich way as this. I ’ll be bound 
that young Timmons are drunk. He, he, he ! Hello ! 
who’s that?” David peered from his little room in 
the great stable out into the moonlight. A man was 
walking rapidly away from the boarding-house where 
the wounded Mike lay. The moon was now far down 
in the west, and struggling under a patch of cloud. 
David strained his eyes to see. The form moved on, 
and presently a rift in the cloud threw the moonlight 
on its path. 

“Great guns!” ejaculated David, “is that Jake 
Conway, or his ghost ?” 

The boy was too well known to David for the latter 
to be mistaken. It was indeed Jake ! He went on past 
Mr. Dill’s store, crossed the road, and was soon lost in 
the shadows. 

“Well, what in the nation is the matter?” ex- 
claimed David, scratching his head. “Am I sleepin’ 
or wakin’ ?” and he rubbed his head again in doubt. 
He remained rubbing his head and meditating on the 
possible causes that brought Jake out at this unseason- 
able hour, for perhaps twenty minutes ; then, having 
satisfactorily explained the matter to himself, to use 
his own phrase, he “turned in.” “He are gone to get 
Mollie, fur some of ’em are sick,” he said as he drew 
the heavy horse-blankets over himself and tried to sleep. 

The north wind had swept the sky clear of clouds. 


no THE WHITE CHURCH. 

and as daylight drew on apace, the cold increased. 
Over the surface of the Branch, Jack Frost was quietly 
laying his glassy floor upon which the stars looked 
down to twinkle and smile at their reflected images. 
The moon was gone. A faint streak in the east beto- 
kened the coming dawn. Silence had settled over all 
the landscape, broken only by an occasional cracking 
of an ice-crystal or the snap of a timber in some big 
barn. The boarding-house, roughly constructed and 
more roughly whitewashed, stood grimly by the 
main road. Its shutterless windows looked blank 
and bare, like those of the historic meeting-house at 
Lexington. 

But, see ! even as the dawn stretches out from the 
east a light curling smoke arises from the back part of 
the rough building. It increases in density. Now it 
mounts like a huge cloud, and flaming tongues leap 
from its bosom. 

“ Fire ! ” the cry rings throughout the house. 

“Fire! fire!” a female form half-clad runs shriek- 
ing from the burning building. David springs from his 
bed. Bob Loomis seizes the great ladder at his shop, 
and hastens to the scene. The village is soon aroused, 
but no power can stay the fire fiend. In one half 
hour the boarding house is a smoldering ruin. The in- 
mates have escaped, thanks to the powerful hands of 
Bob Loomis and David. Poor Mike, carried to Bob’s 
house, is suffering from excitement, but he has re- 
ceived no further injury. 

“Where are them Italians?” asked Bob, when the 
fire had spent its fury. 

Mollie Stormer, Jeft’s wife, thus addressed, made 
answer : 


UNCLE JOE AGAIN. 


II 


do not know. I thought they were in the 

house. ” 

“Not a skin of them ter be seen,” said Bob. “And 
they are the very chaps at the bottom of this mischief” 

“ I gave all the Italians leave to go to Hanaford as 
soon as they quit work yesterday,” said Mr. Sarcott. 
“The fire no doubt has resulted from a defective flue. I 
hardly believe any one has kindled it.^’ 

“Mr. Sarcott,” said David, at this moment step- 
ping up and touching his hat, “ I seed the Italians go 
off yisterday in the afternoon, but I seed something else 
early this mornin’, that may make as much light as the 
fire.” The hostler giggled at his supposed wit, while 
Mr. Sarcott demanded an explanation. 

David now related how he had seen Jake coming 
from the boarding-house not a very long time before the 
fire broke out, “and,” added he, “ the boy looked ter me 
as though he war sneakin’ along for fear of bein’ seen.” 

Mr. Sarcott questioned the man closely, but he 
stoutly averred that there was no mistake. Bob 
Loomis, however, shook his head, a movement that 
David noticed. 

“Ye kin shake yer head all yer please, but if I 
could n’t tell a chap thet I hev knowed from a baby, 
and in plain moonlight, too, yer kin chaw me up fer 
horse feed.” 

“ Mebbe it war Jake,” said Bob; “but Jake never lit 
thet fire.” 

“Surely not; he had no motive,” said Mr. Sar- 
cott, “but we must investigate the matter.” 

“How comes he are not out here at the fire?” 
asked David. “ Everybody else are. ” 

Mr. Sarcott shook his head and walked away. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A NIGHT WANDERER. 

Eurilda Conway refused to be comforted. She 
could never consent to Jake’s accepting Mr. Sarcott’s 
proposal. Her heroic offer to work out, to work at 
almost anything, in order that Jake might leave Mr. 
Sarcott’s employ, and pursue his studies, touched Jake 
to the heart. And now in his own soul arose the great 
struggle. The picture of the preacher’s self-sacrificing 
life on one hand ; the dignity and power of a superin- 
tendent of great business interests on the other. Here 
was a life of labor unappreciated, perhaps soon forgot- 
ten — a life that was laughed at as effeminate, useless, 
idle ; a labor whose recompense was to many a matter 
of charity, and whose object to many more was a mere 
chimera of the mind. But there was wealth, inde- 
pendence, power. “Mr. Conway,” “Superintendent 
Conway’^ — how much better these sounded than 
“ Elder Conway ”! And then the latter title, too — who 
would use it? A few old women and some easy-going 
men. Elder Conway with an old horse and a dilap- 
idated buggy ; Elder Conway at the mite society drink- 
ing tea ; or Elder Conway begging missionary money, 

II2 


A NIGHT WANDERER. 


II3 

or beseeching the brethren to pay up his arrears. This 
was what the boy pictured to himself. The high calling 
of a minister of the gospel ; the leadership of men into 
noble paths, toward lofty thoughts ; the molding of 
young minds ; the directing of reforms ; the awakening 
the human heart by the powers of eloquence ; the in- 
tense satisfaction of transforming character, and of bet- 
tering the human race — to these thoughts his compan- 
ionship of the last few months had not led him. 

But oh ! to be a man of power ! To command here, 
to sign bank checks there, to be known as a man 
whose note was good for thousands, to throw the lines 
from his hands, and to say: Here, David, put up 
this horse ” — ah, this was a life of real value ! Can 
you wonder, reader, that the boy coveted it ? 

This struggle began in Jake’s mind after he had 
sought his bed in the little half-story room of the cot- 
tage. He loved his sister ; he revered the memory of 
his father. Now and then a bright picture of a 
preacher’s life would break upon him, but vanish 
quickly, shut out by the other. Then came the thought, 
should he break Eurilda’s heart, and ah ! should he dis- 
regard the last request of his father? But he would 
have the power to make Eurilda happy, and his 
mother, too. What could his father have wished 
more than this ? 

He called to Eurilda, whose little room was not far 
from his own, and from which he could hear an occa- 
sional sob. And when Eurilda answered, he tried to 
convince her how foolish she was, and how much better 
Mr. Sarcott’s plan would turn out to be. 

But Eurilda could not be convinced, and the boy 
ceased to talk to her. He courted sleep, but it would 


14 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


not come, for now a new cause of unrest had entered 
his thoughts. 

The more he thought on Mr. Sarcott’s plan, the 
more intensely he desired to pursue it. He soon be- 
came conscious of a fear as intense as the desire itself — 
a fear that something might happen to prevent the 
consummation of the plan. He thought over the pos- 
sible causes. There might be some one else whom 
Mr. Sarcott would find. How about Andy Pike? He 
was a bright boy, and had aspirations toward an educa- 
tion. 

May be the project might fall through, and so Mr. 
Sarcott not need him. These and a hundred similar 
thoughts chased each other through Jake’s mind and 
banished sleep. At last a thought came into his head 
in which he seemed to realize. his failure. What if 
Mike should tell Mr. Sarcott about that gambling? A 
cold sweat stood upon Jake’s forehead and he sat up in 
his bed. Why had he not thought of it before ? Alas, 
here was his doom ! Somebody would surely tell 
Mr. Sarcott. Then what? A reliable young man — 
this was what Mr. Sarcott wanted. Was a gambler re- 
liable ? But what did Mr. Sarcott care for a game of 
cards? Nothing; but then — there was the money in- 
terest. Who would want to trust a gambling clerk ? 
So oppressive became the thought that the boy arose 
from his bed. He peered out into the moonlight night 
and could see a light shining from a window in the 
rough house where he knew Mike lay. Who was at- 
tending him? It must be Jeff Stormer. If Jeff could 
be seen — Jeff would not tell Mr. Sarcott on purpose. 
But then he might know. The moon’s rays fell on the 
dingy shop of Bob Loomis. Jake saw that, too, and 


A NIGHT WANDERER. 


5 


thought of Bob. But Bob would not tell. Jake felt 
safe about that. If he could only see Jeff. He longed 
to know how much Jeff knew. Why not see him? 

The thought grew upon him. Jeff was rather dull. 
Jake could easily frame an excuse for coming at that 
hour of the night. The boy resolved to go. He lis- 
tened to see if his mother or Eurilda were awake. He 
heard no sound. Hastily dressing himself he slipped 
down the stairs and out of the cottage. The snow 
creaked beneath his feet, while the keen, frosty air 
made his ears tingle and turned his breath to vapor. 
He walked rapidly up the road, crossed it opposite 
Mr. Dill’s store, and approached the boarding-house. 
He was just stepping into its shadow and had nearly 
reached the stairs that ascended the building on the 
outside, when he became aware of approaching foot- 
steps. He crouched close to the stairs and beheld two 
men walk to the rear of the house. Their walk and 
garb showed plainly that they were two of the Italians. 
An impulse moved Jake to ascend the stairs. Unfor- 
tunately he did so too soon. The men had halted, and 
as Jake went up a step or two he exposed himself fully 
to their view. An exclamation of surprise escaped 
them, and they walked quickly away. At a distance 
Jake saw them stop and talk a moment, then separate. 
A strange feeling came over the boy. He essayed the 
stairs, but his courage failed him. Jeff might not 
be there. He had not thought of that. His reso- 
lution gave way and he started at once back toward the 
cottage. Ah, Jake, the night has eyes ! 

The boy returned stealthily to his bed and finally 
fell asleep. He awoke at the alarm of fire, but was so 
terrified at what he had done and the possibilities con- 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


I l6 

nected with it that he remained at home. And Mrs. 
Conway and Eurilda, who were both afraid, were glad 
to have him do so. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


AN ITALIAN STORY. 

Great was the excitement that stirred the neighbor- 
hood when the news of the fire became known. The 
afternoon that followed it saw a lively scene in the vil- 
lage. Its one street was lined with vehicles of every 
description. Groups of men and women stood around 
the ruins of the boarding-house and discussed number- 
less theories of the disaster. 

Poor Jeff Stormer, who had lost everything, walked 
here and there, viewing the desolation with an air of 
utter hopelessness. Now and then a sigh escaped him, 
as, wandering among the ashes, he picked up some 
charred relic whose former place in the household fur- 
niture he too well recognized. Sometimes he stood with 
his hands in his pockets and seemed half dazed. “Alas 
for the rarity of Christian charity.” Jeff found in the 
hour of his calamity more criticism than sympathy. 

“Guess he’d better stayed on his farm,” said 
one. 

“Wanted to make money a little too fast,’^ said 
another. 

“I reckon Jeff will git some of his airs taken out of 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Il8 

him now,” remarked an elderly farmer; ‘^he war 
beginnin’ ter git pretty high-toned.” 

‘‘Guess he ’s nothing but his bare land left,” added 
some one else ; “he can have a chance to see how be- 
ginning over goes.” 

The crowd around Mr. Dill’s store grew larger as 
evening came on, and the little side room was evidently 
enjoying the company of a great many visitors. Some 
body was certainly profiting by the calamity. 

Nothing had, as yet, been revealed to connect any 
one with the fire, and speculations continued to multiply 
as drink flowed more freely at Mr. Dill’s. Mr. Sarcott 
had wisely cautioned both Bob and David to say noth- 
ing of Jake’s untoward night visit. In the meantime, 
be said, he would investigate the affair carefully. 

The Italians had all come back from Hanaford and 
several of them were in the company at Mr. Dill’s. 
Their companion, the assailant of Mike, was languish- 
ing in the Hanaford jail. They drank freely among 
themselves, and talked glibly in their own language. 
They were especially interested in the conversation 
about the fire, and listened eagerly to all that was said 
upon that subject. The leader of the band, who seemed 
to understand more English than the rest, turned fre- 
quently to his followers and talked volubly as if in ex- 
planation of some of the talk. His efforts were accom- 
panied by certain gestures and signs of emphasis that 
highly pleased his hearers. 

It was during one of these interpretations that a 
woman entered the store. A glance at her dark eyes, 
her olive complexion, and the careworn look of her 
face, revealed Mary, Mr. Sarcott’s housekeeper. She 
came upon some errand, and Mr. Dill hastened to wait 


AN ITALIAN STORY. 


II9 

upon her. While he was thus engaged the earnest 
voice of the Italian fell upon her ear and she moved 
down the great store-room to a point nearly opposite 
the door that led to the saloon. Just inside stood the 
speaker, to whom Mary, slightly tipping her fur bonnet, 
listened very intently. A sarcastic smile played upon 
her features as he concluded ; but without a word she 
turned away and dispatched her business with Mr. 
Dill. As she passed out of the store, the look upon her 
face would have attracted an artist. Something cer- 
tainly had pleased her. 

Hardly had she left the store before Mr. Sarcott 
entered. 

‘‘Whew, Dill! you ’re full here to-night,” he re- 
marked, taking his way directly to the bar-room. 

“ Yes, ” answered the little man, rather nervously, 
“and I am glad you have come in. They make so 
much noise. I am half afraid some of them will get to 
quarreling again. And Jimmy is so busy behind the 
bar he could n’t prevent an accident if he should try.’’ 
Jimmy was Mr. Dill’s bar-tender. 

Mr. Dill’s look was that ^of a man half disgusted 
with the business, and, indeed, had it not been for his 
fear of Mr. Sarcott, it is likely that he would have 
backed out of the saloon enterprise then and there. 

Mr. Sarcott paid no attention to Mr. Dill, but stood 
in the door of the bar-room eyeing the company assem- 
bled there. Bob Loomis sat tipped back on a chair 
smoking a pipe, but no grog had passed his lips that 
night. 

The large Italian soon caught sight of Mr. Sarcott, 
and a pleased expression settled on his face. He ad- 


126 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


dressed something in his own language to his compan- 
ions, then approached the magnate. 

“Well, Adolfo,” said the latter, “you fellows don’t 
seem to be satisfied with your Hanaford spree. You 
are making up for it here, I suppose. Take care that 
you don’t get too drunk to work to-morrow.” 

“No drink in Hanaford, Mr. Sarcote. All go to 
see Henri. He shut up in big jail. No make money 
for wife. Much bad trouble, Mr. Sarcote.” 

“Went to console Henri, did you?” returned Mr. 
Sarcott. “Well, he ’ll need some consolation before he 
gets through. Take care that you do n’t get into more 
trouble on his account.” 

“Other man get into trouble,” rejoined Adolfo, 
“ more trouble bigger Henri.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Mr. Sarcott. 

“Other man keep with Henri in jail by and by; 
other man much bad, worse Henri. Make big fire last 
night. Him go jail, too,” and here the Italian motioned 
with his hand toward Hanaford. 

Mr. Sarcott was puzzled. The Italian saw this, and 
ventured to take him lightly by the arm, uttering the 
one significant word “Come!” 

“What do you want, Adolfo?” asked Mr. Sarcott, 
hesitating. 

“Come!” said the Italian again. “No speak loud 
here. No want him to hear,” added he, indicating Bob 
with his head. 

They passed to the rear of the store, and though no 
notice was taken of the whole transaction by most of 
the company, yet the remaining Italians saw it and ex- 
changed glances. 


AN ITALIAN STORY. 


I2I 


The two arrived at the extreme end of the large 
store-room and took shelter behind a large box. 

“Look, Mr. Sarcott, ” whispered Adolfo, “much 
talk in saloon. Men talk great much. Nobody know 
who make fire. Look! Adolfo know 1” 

“You know?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, who?” 

“Sh 1” said Adolfo putting his hand at the side of 
his mouth and letting his voice fall to a whisper, “ sh 1 
big boy make fire. Big Jake 1” 

Mr. Sarcott was thunderstruck. “How do you 
know?” demanded he, in a loud voice. 

“Sh!” said the Italian again, as if afraid of being 
overheard, “no talk so loud. Adolfo no tell lie. Jake 
make fire.” 

“How do you know? Speak!” said Mr. Sarcott, 
angrily. 

“How know?” asked the Italian, “Know easy. 
Carlo and Pietro see him.” 

This testimony, according so closely with David’s 
story, astonished Mr. Sarcott more then ever, but he re- 
mained calm. 

“Why, Adolfo,” said he, “why would Jake do 
such a thing as that ?” 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, as he answered ; 

“Me think he much mad with Mike, ’fraid Mike 
tell, play much card with Mike. Burn Mike up. Mike 
tell. Dead man no can tell.” 

Had it not been for David’s statement, Mr. Sarcott 
would not have given the slightest credence to the 
Italian’s story. He was moved, however, by the singu- 
lar circumstances to make a further investigation. 


122 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Without telling Bob of his interview with Adolfo, 
he summoned that worthy and drew from him the en- 
tire truth concerning Jake’s card -playing with Mike. 
He then went immediately home. 

His household had all retired, and he repaired at 
once to his big room. 

“Well, well, this is a mystery,” remarked he to 
himself, as he took the tongs and stirred the fire. 
“And yet not so much of a mystery either. I’ll be 
bound that those Italians are at the bottom of the 
whole affair, and are blaming it on Jake because the 
boy was seen skylarking around the boarding-house. 
I wonder what in the wide world took him out there 
that night.” 

The big man of the village sat silently watching the 
coal fire. The clock on the marble mantel chimed mid- 
night, and still he sat thinking. It chimed one, and 
still he sat by the grate, resting his head upon his 
hand. 

At last he arose and began to walk the floor, at the 
same time beginning as usual to soliloquize. 

“There is a chain of circumstantial evidence,” 
said he, “strong enough to convict that boy of arson; 
but pshaw! he is as innocent as I am. But,” said he, 
with a peculiar smile, “this apple has fallen especially 
for me to pick up. Here is an affair that has certainly 
happened to favor my suit. I think the Lord must 
have a hand in it.” At this remark he broke out into 
a laugh. “ I have been more than usually fortunate of 
late,” he added. “ I wonder if Gabriel hasn’t made a 
mistake and singled me out for one of his saints.” At 
this he laughed again. The laugh on his face had 
hardly passed before it was followed by a look that in 


AN ITALIAN STORY. 


123 


daylight would have passed for one of shame. is 

a little mean,” continued he, “and no doubt will cost 
the widow some tears, but I will have to work it a 
little — just a little.” Mr. Sarcott paused ; he thought 
he heard a low, sarcastic laugh. He listened intently. 
“ No,” he concluded, “ it is the wind. I declare, I am 
afraid I am becoming subject to nervousness.” 

He picked up his lamp and retired to an adjoining 
room. As he turned his back a tall figure peered into 
the large room ; two black eyes gleamed in the light of 
the dying coals for a moment and then disappeared. 

The excitement in the village arose to fever heat, 
when, in less than a week from its occurrence, Jake 
Conway was arrested on suspicion of having kindled 
the fire. 

Uncle Joe hastened to the Conway cottage to com- 
fort the well nigh frantic widow and her daughter. 
Aunt Samantha, though prostrated again over the 
news, had urged him to come. 

At the cottage he met Mr. Sarcott. 

“I have perfect confidence that the boy is inno- 
cent,” said Mr. Sarcott to the old man, “and I will go 
his bail.” 

“ Innercent!” said Uncle Joe, “ innercent ! he are 
as innercent as I am.” The good old man had never 
bewailed his own poverty so much before, for he in- 
wardly wished that he might prevent Mr. Sarcott from 
lending the family any financial aid whatever. 

With a sorrowful heart Jake accompanied the 
sheriff of the county to Hanaford, where, at a prelimi- 
nary examination, he was bound over, Mr. Sarcott 
going his bail. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A NEW DISASTER. 

Mr. Sarcott sat alone in his large library. He had 
just returned from the Justice’s office, where Jake had 
been bound over to answer to the charge of arson. 

“Now,” said the village magnate, as he seated 
himself in his big chair, “now I will change the 
language of old Shakespeare a little, and say : ' now is 
the summer of my content — things could not have hap- 
pened better if I had ordered them myself. Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Providence must surely be smiling on a poor sin- 
ner. I am afraid he has deserted the cause of old Dad 
Sales, and taken up with one of the unwashed. I be- 
lieve the Bible says he is no respecter of persons, 
whatever the Craggy Hill saints may think. Ha ! 
ha!” And the scheming man chuckled and rubbed 
his hands. 

He finished this performance with a rousing clap, as 
though emphasizing some new scheme that had sug- 
gested itself to his fertile brain. Then he arose, and, 
lighting a cigar, he began his old habit of pacing the 
room. Now and then he would stop as he walked, fill 


124 


A NEW DISASTER. 


125 


his mouth with smoke until his cheeks were distended, 
then blow a deep blue cloud toward the ceiling. As 
this cloud settled slowly, he would fix his eyes upon it 
with deep contemplation until it scattered, when he 
would resume his walking. 

He continued to walk thus until he had finished his 
cigar, then, stepping to the head of the stairs, he 
called Nannie. The bright-eyed child quickly an- 
swered his summons. 

“Nannie,” said Mr. Sarcott, “put on your cloak 
and run over to Bob Loomis’s for me.” 

“All right, papa ; shall I tell him you want him ? ” 
asked the child, all in one breath. 

“Not so fast, Nannie, ” said Mr. Sarcott, a little 
impatiently; “wait until you know my errand.” 

Nannie looked a little crestfallen, but said no more, 
as she stood awaiting her father’s pleasure. 

“You go,” said her father, “to Bob’s house; if he 
is not there go to the store, and if he is not there go to 
his shop ; at any rate, find him and tell him I want to 
see him at once.” 

The child did as she was directed, and Mr. Sarcott 
seated himself at his table with his head resting upon 
his arm. He began his old habit of talking to himself. 

“I must manage to get the boy’s trial put off as 
long as possible,” said he, half aloud. “I must pro- 
long the widow’s trouble a little. She hardly feels de- 
pendent on me yet. I know these women. She will 
be easily brought to consent when she finds it is the 
only thing that will save the boy from disgrace.” 
Here Mr. Sarcott gave his accustomed chuckle. 

“ Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall into it; and he that 
rolleth a stone ^ it will return upon himy 


126 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


The words came clear and sharp, and Mr. Sarcott 
jumped instantly to his feet. 

A low, sarcastic laugh that might have been the 
echo of his own chuckle, came from the outer hall, 
and grew fainter as the great man started toward the 
door. It seemed to linger on the stairway, and at last 
to blend, he knew not how, with the breeze that came 
from the cold hall below, until, as he stood at the top 
of the stairs listening, he became conscious of nothing 
more unusual than a strange ringing in his ears and the 
low moaning of the wind without. 

“Pooh! that’s that half-crazy Mary again,” said 
he, looking a little foolish. “I suppose she thinks 
she has prodded my conscience with a sharp theological 
spear now. Ha! ha!” 

He returned to his chair, but somehow his mental 
state had undergone a great change. He tried to feel 
unconcerned — to persuade himself that the voice had 
not disturbed him — but his actions belied his attempts. 
His complacency was gone. A vague sense of inse- 
curity oppressed him. The room seemed dark. And 
why not ? for to him it was invaded by the veritable 
shadow of his own meanness. He lit another cigar, 
and waited impatiently for Bob. 

That worthy was found by Nannie contentedly 
smoking his pipe in Mr. Dill’s store. He received the 
message with an air of indifference ; but bidding the 
child inform her father that he would come in a few 
minutes, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and 
started toward his home. 

I will leave the reader to judge for himself why Bob 
took the trouble to array himself in another and more 
respectable suit of clothes before going to the big 


A NEW DISASTER. 


127 


house. He did not seem to be in a very good humor 
while effecting this transformation. His wife ventured 
to inquire about the disturbing influences. 

“Laury, ” said Bob, in reply to one of her interro- 
gations, “it are enough ter make a saint swar ter see 
the tricks of Jim Sarcott. I know he hez got the 
deadwood on us, and if I ain’t mistaken he will soon 
hev it on all Risin^ Branch. Talk about yer big men ! 
I war ’fraid enough all my life of Jim Sarcott, ’cause I 
never got close to him till lately ; but, Laury, if his 
solidness ain’t gone ter shadder as I come nigh onter 
it, I ’ll never hit an anvil agin. Mebbe he thinks I are 
goin’ ter be his cat’s paw without hevin’ sense enough 
ter know it; but you wait.” 

“ Laury,” who well knew how Bob had, in former 
days, regarded Mr. Sarcott, and who knew, too, a little 
of Bob’s habit of boasting, was nevertheless puzzled 
about his speech. 

Bob continued; “ I see yer not able ter take it in, 
Laury; but give it a good thinkin’ now, and listen. 
I ’ve been meditatin’ some this winter, and I hev had 
my eyes open, too. Sarcott are continerly scoldin’ 
me fur not keepin’ them Italians inside the traces, yet 
he are sellin’ likker ter them every day ; and what’s 
meaner, doin’ it all in Dill’s name. Here ’s not a year 
gone yit, and he ’s got half this neighborhood in his 
fist — holdin’ of mortgages and the like. One feller 
hez been about killed, and poor Jeff Stormer are broke 
up. They say his Mollie are nigh about crazy. And 
that ain’t the meanest. He are tryin’ his level best ter 
squeeze the Conways ter the wall, just so the widder 
will hev ter marry him or go to the poor-house. I feel 
like kickin’ myself ter think I ever got inter his 


128 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


clutches ; but mind yer, Laury, I am not the misera- 
blest humin bein’ in this yer town, as folks hez alius 
had it. I hev been ter blame gittin’ Jake inter this 
scrape and I am goin’ ter be ter blame gittin’ him 
out.” At this remark Bob gave his boot a tremendous 
stamp, and continued for a while to beat the floor with 
his heel, as if grinding the life out of a prostrate 
enemy. He then took his way to the Sarcott mansion. 

‘ ‘ The old man are up ter some scheme agin, and 
wants my help, I ’ll be bound,” said Bob, as he walked 
along. “ He ’ll be apt ter get it, too ; but it is goin^ 
to be after my own fashion, see if it ain’t.” 

He had arrived by this time at the rich man’s door, 
and, ushered by Mary, he was soon standing in Mr. 
Sarcott’s presence. 

“Well, Bob,” was that gentleman’s greeting, “we 
are having rather exciting times.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Bob, taking the chair toward 
which Mr. Sarcott motioned. “Things hez been a 
little lively, thet ’s a fact ; but they are gittin’ consider- 
able quieter.” 

“Have you been down to the widow’s to-day?” 
asked Mr. Sarcott. 

“Yes,” answered Bob, “and they’re in a terrible 
bad shape. The widder is well nigh sick abed, and the 
girl ain’t much better. They ’re takin’ it powerful 
hard.” 

“ Of course the widow believes the boy innocent?” 
queried Mr. Sarcott. 

“ Innercent ?” repeated Bob, emphatically. “Is 
there any as doesn’t believe it?” 

“Well, I do not know about that. Bob,” replied 
Mr. Sarcott; “of course, we who know him hardly 


A NEW DISASTER. 


129 


believe him guilty; but I suppose some do. At any 
rate, he has been unfortunate enough to get himself 
accused, and as a result must stand his trial. What do 
you suppose took him out about the boarding-houses 
that time of night, Bob ? David is positive that he 
identified him.’’ 

‘‘For the life o' me, I can’t tell, sir,” answered the 
blacksmith. “In course I can't gainsay what David 
swars ter ; but I '11 venture to say if that boy war out, 
there will some reason fur it come out by and by. ” 

“No doubt of it, ” rejoined Mr. Sarcott; “but now, 
since he has been bound over and I have gone his bail, 
I '11 tell you what I want : I want you to persuade Jake 
to run away before his trial.” 

“What! and jump his bail?” asked Bob. 

“Yes,” answered Mr. Sarcott; “I am good for 
the bail, but I would like to have the boy gone.” 

Having come expecting that his employer would 
propose some new scheme of villainy. Bob did not 
manifest much surprise at this extraordinary desire. 
He merely asked, “ When are his trial ?’ 

“It is set for the last week in June,” answered Mr. 
Sarcott; “about four months yet.” 

“The old scamp are at the bottom of havin' it 
staved off that long,” thought Bob; but he asked 
aloud, “ How am I goin’ ter persuade him ter run off?” 

“Oh, that will be easy enough,” was the reply. 
“You see there is certainly a strong chain of circum- 
stantial evidence against the boy. The Italian is posi- 
tive that he saw him, and so is David. He admits 
himself that he was out, and gives no satisfactory 
reason ; and they say that he was not on good terms 
with Mike. Now you persuade him that he is likely 


130 THE WHITE CHURCH. 

to be convicted, and he will be glad to get away. You 
may tell him that you heard me say that the Grand 
Jury might possibly add the charge of attempt at mur- 
der to the indictment.” 

*‘Thet would be orful,” remarked Bob. 

It would, indeed,” continued Mr. Sarcott, ‘‘and 
I have good reasons for wishing the boy to forfeit his 
bail. What these reasons are, will appear in due time. 
I want you then, Bob, to persuade the lad away. 
You can do it; and as for compensation, you know I 
never forget my friends.” 

“I reckon I kin do the business fur ye, sir,” re- 
marked Bob, wearing a smile of apparent satisfaction. 
“In short, I’ll see ter it thet the boy gits away. 
When do ye want him fur ter go?” 

‘ ‘ Any time before the trial, Bob. Perhaps you 
had better not be too fast about it ; and remember — 
you have not talked with me about this matter at all, 
you understand. And be sure to keep him away till 
after the time set for trial.” 

Bob nodded assent, and Mr. Sarcott showed him 
out. 

The smith took his way home again, in no pleasant 
frame of mind. 

“The old rascal !” he exclaimed, as soon as he had 
seated himself once more in “Laury’s” presence; 
“didn’t I tell yer he war up to some meanness ? And 
he thinks I do n’t see through it. Laury, look at me 
right straight in the face. Look at this yer forrid.” 
Here Bob tapped himself on the aforesaid “forrid” 
with his forefinger. “Laury, I ain’t a clear igit yit, if 
I have ben countid shiftless. The idear of him think- 
in* that I don’t know why he wants Jake ter skip 


A NEW DISASTER. 


I3I 

out!'" A look of the utmost contempt settled on the 
swarthy face, and did not leave it while he was relating 
the interview to “ Laury ” 

Bob’s face remained nearly as dark as the gloomy 
winter day, that had now almost run its short course. 

A great change had taken place in the weather. A 
warm wind blew up from the south, and, kissing the 
snow, began to soften its cold heart. Rain began to 
fall, slacking up at intervals, but leaving the earth 
wrapped in a disagreeable fog. Drip, drip, drip, from 
roofs, from trees, from the great coats of chronic vis- 
itors who were gathering early at Mr. Dill’s saloon. 
The fog grew thicker, and poured out its water without 
rising. At intervals the dull note of the hoot-owl 
sounded in the low forest lands along the branch. 

‘*Whew!” exclaimed Bob, as he crossed the road 
and took his accustomed way to Mr. Dill’s ; ‘‘ whew ! it 
are goin’ ter break up, and if the Branch ain’t boomin’ 
’fore mornin’ I ’ll never lift a sledge agin.” The smith 
waded through the melting snow until he had almost 
reached the saloon door, when suddenly, as if seized by 
a sudden impulse, he re-crossed the road and took his 
way toward the Branch. A heavy oilcloth suit pro- 
tected him, and he strode on with the air of one who 
enjoyed the extreme dampness. The night had nearly 
come. The few village lights served but to reveal the 
presence of the mist. The sound of rising waters fell 
distinctly on the blacksmith’s ear. 

'‘The ice are goin’,” said he; “if it should bust- 
the dam at Craggy Hill, we ’ll git a fine lay out down 
here. But it are good and strong.” 

Bob stopped at the edge of the Branch, and gazed 
into its rapidly increasing volume. Just beyond arose 


132 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the railroad embankment, vague, indistinct, and grow- 
ing more so in the thickening darkness. 

Taking off his rubber hat. Bob managed to light a 
match inside of it, and apply it to his pipe. The sound 
of rain, the roar of waters, and the signs of a gather- 
ing freshet have a charm for some people. Bob 
seemed to be of the class. He stood puffing his pipe 
beside the Branch, while the outlines of his figure grew 
fainter as the night enwrapped him. With no motive 
but to enjoy the situation, he stood a long time in the 
same spot, the rain falling heavily from above and the 
snow melting as rapidly below. The darkness increased 
as the snow disappeared, and when Bob had finished 
his pipe it was with difficulty that he could discern the 
long line of embankment beyond the Branch. 

‘^Hi!” said he, a thought suddenly striking him, 
‘'a big flood might make Jim Sarcott squirm — if it 
should damage that bank over yonder. 'T would n’t 
be no more nor a judgment onter him. He are so 
greedy fur money ! And a mis’rable way he are takin’ 
ter git it, too. Do n’t make no diff’rence ter him who 
suffers. Hark! what on airth !” 

Bob had been walking slowly through the slush as 
he mused, and now he paused and listened intently. 
A sound like a coming thunderstorm swept down the 
Branch. Bob raised his eyes and looked upward. 
The rain still fell heavily, but no tempest was in the 
air. 

‘"Great!” said the smith, as the sound grew 
louder, “if the road were done I’d say a train was 
cornin’; but listen !” 

There was no mistaking that muffled roar. 

“It are water! The dam are gone! Ho — o — o!” 


A NEW DISASTER. 


133 


shouted the excited man, flinging away his rubber coat 
and bounding toward the village. “ Ho — o ! the dam 
are gone!” He paused a moment for breath. “And 
it never went of itself with this little rain,” said 
he, as he rushed on. ‘ ‘ Hello 1 everybody 1 Hey — o — 1 ” 

“Ha! ha! ha! hey — o — o — o — !” The shrill tones 
cut through the rain and fog like a knife. Bob stopped 
as if a bullet had met him. That was not the echo of 
his shout. 

“ Ha ! ha ! hey— o — o — o !” The sound was not ten 
rods away. Bob strained his eyes to make out what 
the indefinable figure that now loomed up in the dark- 
ness might be. 

“Oh, ho ! ho ! listen to it coming. It will wash the 
money out of the bank. Yes, my money and Jeffs. 
He ’s buried it in there. Hurry up! Oh, come on!” 

“Didn’t I know it?” almost shrieked Bob, as he 
leaped toward the flying figure. 

“Let me alone! Isay, let me go!” screamed the 
maniac. “I know you. Bob Loomis. He sent you 
to stop me, but you are too late. Ha! ha!” 

“We will be drownded!” cried Bob, while his 
sturdy arm encircled the raving Mollie. The screams 
of the demented woman, the pouring rain, and the 
steady roaring of the approaching flood, wrought Bob 
almost to distraction. Mollie struggled fiercely in his 
iron grasp. * 

“He got us to move to town,” she screamed, 
** and he has taken all our money and buried it in that 
bank. He burned the house to get it, and it’s all 
buried there. I knew the water would wash it out. 
And this was such a good night ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! I put 


134 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the powder there a week ago. How the rocks flew ! 
Let me go, I say Bob Loomis, let me go.’* 

Mollie had not half finished this speech before Bob 
had divined the truth. Crazed at the loss occasioned by 
the fire, and laboring under a strange delusion, Mollie 
Stormer had concealed a keg of powder in the dam at 
Craggy Hill. With all the acuteness of a maniac, .she 
had chosen this opportune night to explode it. 

A cool mathematician would not have reached surer 
results. For miles down the valley the flood tore away 
the embankment, destroying, in a single night, all the 
work of the previous autumn. Alas for Mr. Sarcott’s* 
plans ! He was a heavy loser, and, worse than all, the 
opening of the railroad was indefinitely delayed. 

‘‘I had a terrible time gettin* her ter the village,” 
remarked Bob next day, as he exhibited his lacerated 
arms to Laury. “If Jim Sarcott hez made anything in 
enticin’ them two mortals ter leave their home and play 
inter his pockit, I’d like ter see it.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE FLIGHT. 

How did Mollie Stormer ever succeed in blowing up 
the dam breast at Craggy Hill ? Nobody ever knew. 
Nobody ever had seen her go up there ; but after the 
disaster, Mr. Dill found, on investigating, that a keg of 
powder was missing from his store. Poor Mollie was 
hopelessly insane, and had been sent to the asylum at 
Carterville. 

The blow fell heavily upon Mr. Sarcott, and Mary, 
his housekeeper, did not lose the opportunity to thrust 
a spear into his side. 

Silent and moody, the great man had just finished 
his breakfast, and sat tapping his coffee cup with an air 
of abstraction. It was about a week after the events of 
the last chapter. Jennie and Nannie had gone upstairs, 
and Mr. Sarcott was for a moment alone. Mary entered, 
and fixed her great dark eyes upon him. 

Well, James, Providence must have quit smiling 
on poor sinners, eh?” A wicked smile played about 
the woman’s mouth. 

“ Go about your business !” returned Mr. Sarcott, 

135 


136 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


‘^and do not be too exultant, my black and tan saint; 
time may change the twist on your lip.” 

“Timeworks wonders,” rejoined Mary, with her 
usual sarcasm. 

“Yes,” answered the magnate, “and it will work 
wonders that you are not looking for. I suppose you 
certainly think that Pharaoh is drowned in the Red Sea 
now. Had n’t you better strike up the Song of Moses? 
Come, do.” 

“People will hear the song of Moses sooner than 
you think,” retorted Mary; “ in the meantime, defy the 
Lord, harden your heart, for your stubborn eyes refuse 
to look ahead to the death of the first-born.’’ 

‘ ‘Yes,” replied Mr. Sarcott, ‘ ‘ that ’s a pretty God that 
you worship — a God that chastises his children, and then 
hardens their hearts so that they must repeat the offense ! 
I believe in a different kind of God. How like a 
fool you will look when you see that a temporary disaster 
has not materially injured my plans. I may be able to 
cure you of some of your senseless superstitions yet ; 
but I doubt it.” 

“So do I,” returned Mary, emphatically. 

Mary had read Mr. Sarcott aright. His mind was 
in a Pharaoh-like state of defiance. 

“I will make things work,” said he to himself, 
half savagely, as he returned to his library. “ What’s 
the use of my giving away now and then to these fool- 
ish superstitions ? I declare they affected me last night. 
But pshaw ! if I can show some of these leatherheads 
that a miserable sinner can beat their Providence in a fair 
and square race, it will do more good than all their cant. ” 

Mr. Sarcott had hardly uttered this sentiment, when 
he felt himself possessed by a vague fear — a fear that 


THE FLIGHT. 137 

his insolent defiance might provoke some kind of wrath. 
Yes, but whose ? 

“ Pshaw!” said he, picking up his favorite Age of 
Reason,” there is no personal God. Tom Paine 
killed him dead forty years ago.” 

He continued reading for an hour, fortifying his 
unbelief ; but when he lay the book down and mentally 
examined his ramparts, they were, he felt, weak and 
insecure. How strange that he should still defy the 
power of God 1 

While Mr. Sarcott sat reading. Bob Loomis was 
preparing to visit Jake Conway. The family in the 
cottage were certainly enduring their Gethsemane. 
A few of the faithful brethren at Craggy Hill had not 
deserted them, but alas ! in this hour of deep affliction 
many of their town neighbors withheld their sympathy. 
Some had even gone so far as to make their adversities 
the subject of unkind remark. 

Strange to say, a friend had arisen whom, in past 
years, the family had never dreamed of regarding in 
that role. It was Bob Loomis. So changed had he 
become in the last few weeks that the Conways could 
hardly credit their senses. He had dropped his rude 
way, ceased almost entirely to swear, and never lost an 
opportunity to do the widow a kindness. It was evident 
that some influence was rapidly transforming Bob. Mrs. 
Conway mused upon it, and wondered. Instead of the 
repugance that his occasional visits formerly awakened, 
the family now felt cheered by his coming. Indeed, since 
Jake’s arrest, Eurilda had come to watch for him with 
a certain degree of anxiety. Next to Uncle Joe’s, no 
face was now more welcome than his. To this rude 
and low-born man, the Conways looked for a sympathy 


138 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


that no previous experience had shown him to possess. 
Yes, something was transforming Bob. 

On this particular morning, Eurilda, looking through 
the window, saw Bob approaching. 

“Oh, good!” she exclaimed ; “there comes Bob; 
it seems good to see some one from town who cares 
for us.’' 

“ If there ’s anything that Laury could do fer ye,” 
said Bob to Mrs. Conway, after announcing that he 
wished to see Jake, “she will be glad ter do it.” 

“Nothing, Bob, thank you,” said the widow, “but 
if you find any new clew, oh. Bob” — here she broke 
entirely down. 

“Never you mind, Mrs. Conway,” said Bob, “this 
thing is goin’ ter come out all right ; and now all I want 
of yer a minute is ter listen ter me, both yerself and the 
darter there. What I tell yer I want yer ter tell to no 
livin’ mortal, unless it are Daddy Sales.” 

Mrs. Conway and Eurilda promised, though in much 
surprise. 

“Now, then,” said Bob, “yer will be diserpinted, 
for it ain’t information what I ’m goin’ ter give away. 
All I want of ye is ter give yer consent ter Jake’s 
goin’ away fer awhile.” 

“What! Oh, Bob, where?” 

“Be calm, both on yer. I kin tell yer no more. 
All I ax is that yer trust ter me. I have a plan. Jake 
will be a clear man, and somethin’ else ’ll happen that 
yer will thank God fur the longest day yer live. I want 
Jake ter go away as if he war skippin’ out. Mind yer, 
he will not jump his bail. Do n’t trubble yer conshence. 
I ’ll see thet he are here fur trial ; but I want him ter 
skip out next week.^’ 


THE FLIGHT. 


139 


Astonished at this strange request, the widow and 
Eurilda were almost speechless. At any other time it 
would have been doubtful if their consent would have 
been given. Their desperate case, however, and their 
confidence in Bob, led them to give it. And when 
they had given it, they wondered in their hearts, and 
were more and more mystified. 

Jake and Bob walked away together. The former 
had just returned from the barn. They took their way 
across the fields, now bare of snow, but still extremely 
wet. A few song-birds had ventured, thus early, back 
to the leafless woods. A few saucy jays were quarrel- 
ing in the trees, and here and there a crow cawed from 
some high oak. 

On a dry knoll in the woods the two sat down, and 
Bob revealed his plans. 

‘ ‘ But I can 't for the life of me see why I should 
run away,” said Jake. 

“Justw'ait, boy, a little, can’t yer? I ain’t done 
yit. Now keep yer ears open. It is plain why Jim 
Sarcott wants yer to go away. He thinks that, hevin’ 
jumped yer bail, yer won’t come back— at least not 
very soon. He wants yer mother to be as dependent 
on him as possible. When yer gone he’ll visit yer 
mother, and, findin’ her seeminly helpless, will offer ter 
pay off that store debt at Dill’s. Yer know yer have 
made a big one there this year. He ’ll do this, ex- 
pectin’ that, as yer mother has given up all hopes of 
yer help, that she ’ll feel it her dooty ter marry him, 
part fur the sake of a home fur Eurilda, and part ter 
pay his kindniss. Now, boy, you go, and when he 
pays that bill, I ’ll signal yer ter come back all of a 
suddint. Do yer take it in ?” 


140 THE WHITE CHURCH. 

“Maybe he’ll lift the mortgage, too,” added Jake, 
rather earnestly. 

“Never yer mind that mortgage, boy. Don’t try 
to know too much. I ax yer, do yer take in my 
scheme ?” 

The reader need not be surprised if Jake was puz- 
zled over the casuistry that this scheme presented, nor 
need he be surprised that, being unable to unravel it, 
Jake, to help his mother, as he thought, consented. 

A week after this interview, Jake Conway, with the 
help of Bob, left the village of Rising Branch at night. 
The whole neighborhood was excited when his flight 
became known. “Didn’t I tell you?” was on fifty 
tongues. Mr. Sarcott, as he sought the seclusion 
of his library the evening after Jake had gone, was 
greatly elated. 

“ I tell you what,” said he, rubbing his hands and 
chuckling, “this blacksmith is just my man. He is a 
regular Michael Lambourne ; yes, a regular Lam- 
bourne.” 

“ Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of 
men, for in them there is no salvation.” 

“If that woman is not a ventriloquist,” said Mr. 
Sarcott, starting from his chair, “ she is a demon.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 

Mrs. Conway and Eurilda sat alone in their little 
cottage. Six months had wrought a great change 
therein, but not so great as had been wrought in Mrs. 
Conway’s looks. She had grown perceptibly older. 
Gray hairs were plain among her dark tresses, and her 
eyes were red. Eurilda, too, was changed. It was 
visible in her emaciation. A troubled look, that was 
not made to be carried by so young a face, never- 
theless haunted her expression. Six months — it was 
a short time, but the cloud that had been settling over 
the cottage was crammed with care. 

Mrs. Conway was basting, and Eurilda was busy at 
the sewing-machine. 

^‘Oh, Eurilda,” said the widow, after some mo- 
ments of silence, why am I so impulsive? Why do 
I not stop to think ? I have consented to this strange 
plan of Bob’s, I know not why. I ought to have, 
waited. At least I ought to have seen Uncle Joe. 
Why did I trust so blindly to Bob, and yet fail to trust 
more to God !” 

“Mamma, do not cry,” said Eurilda, tenderly ; “I 


142 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


am afraid we all trust what we can see before we trust 
what we can not see. It seems so hard sometimes to 
walk by faith, as Paul says, especially when we think 
we see a path. • 

Bob has changed so in the last few weeks, espec- 
ially since that man was hurt,” said the widow, “that 
I felt some how he was a friend in need. He would 
not do us an injury, yet I can not feel wholly at ease. 
My mind is in a whirl.” 

“For my part, mamma,” said Eurilda, “I con- 
sented to Bob’s plan, because it will take Jake out of Mr. 
Sarcott’s reach, at least for the present. Oh, I fear 
him, mamma. I fear that his influence on Jake will 
keep him from ever following what it was father’s last 
wish for him to follow. Bob was here a few moments 
yesterday, and he assured me so earnestly that Jake 
was safe, and would be in no bad company, that I am 
much relieved.” 

“Well,” replied the widow, “I have trusted Bob 
now, and, though I feel ashamed to do it, I must trust 
God for the result. I wish Bob had revealed his plans 
to me a little more fully.” 

“The way people are talking makes it a little bad 
for us,” said Eurilda; “ but I believe all will be well.” 

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of 
Uncle Joe Sales. He had knocked, but, without wait- 
ing, had opened the door and walked in. 

His face wore an expression of deep sorrow, which 
the widow at once connected with his interest in her 
own affairs. Her face reddened a little, and she be' 
trayed some confusion. 

“ I suppose you have come to scold me, Uncle 
Joe, for letting Jake go away,” said she. 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 


143 


“Wal, Amelia,” replied Uncle Joe, taking the 
chair that Eurilda handed him, “it war certainly a 
queer thing fur ye ter do. If Bob Loomis hed told me 
of it in time, I should hev protestid ; but Jake war gone 
before I knowed it. No doubt Bob thought he war 
doin’ ye a favor ; but I ’m sure if ye hed made Bob tell, 
ye the plan, as I made him tell it, ye would n’t hev 
give it yer sankshen.” 

“ Why, Uncle Joe, is the plan so bad that Jake 
would have be^n deceived ? I do not think he would 
do wrong, if he knew it.” 

“No, I don’t, ayther,” replied Uncle Joe; “but 
the case is one as must hev presentid a queer shape ter 
the lad. All he seed, no doubt, was a chance ter 
relieve ye of difficulty fur a while, and give himself a 
better chance ter help ye permanintly. So he con- 
sinted ; but, knowin’ Bob’s plan, I hope, Amelia, ye 
won’t allow Mr. Sarcott ter render ye any sich help.” 

Eurilda and her mother were both surprised when 
Uncle Joe revealed Bob’s plan, as he had it from Bob’s 
lips. Mrs. Conway felt more perplexed than ever. 
Again she reproached herself for acting so hastily. 
Alas ! so many people act first, and then reproach 
themselves afterward. 

“ No doubt my looks is what led ye ter ax that ques- 
tion of me?” said Uncle Joe, in a moment. 

“ What question ?” queried both. 

“Whether I come ter scold ye,” said Uncle Joe. 
“ But I did n’t. The truth is, Amelia, while I ’m ex_ 
ceedin’ sorry about this hull affair of Jake’s, I am 
sorrier about another thing. What has happened is 
nothing more nor I expectid, and only what I said we 
could look for. I am only anxious that we do some- 


144 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


thin’ ter check the wickedness thet has begun ; but I 
am afraid we can’t.” 

Uncle Joe, like many other men, sometimes sought 
encouragement in opinions that agreed with his own. 
And, like other men, he would seek to direct such 
opinion, in order that he might get the encouragement. 
He felt pretty confident that the events of the last two 
months would prove powerful helps in his efforts to get 
the church at the village. His remark was intended to 
draw from Mrs. Conway a confirmatory opinion. He 
succeeded well, for she replied : 

“ O, Uncle Joe! I am sure that you will now be 
able to turn these events into a channel for good. You 
can certainly show our brethren now the folly of build- 
ing anywhere but here.” 

“ Mebbe I will be an instrument in the Lord’s 
hands,” returned Uncle Joe, with some complacency, 
“but it ’s nateral that I should hev a few misgivin’s, 
especially since Elder Tribbey and them is a fightin’ so 
agin me.” 

“It is so strange,” said the widow, “that Elder 
Tribbey should oppose this movement so.” 

“Nothin’ very strange, Amelia,” rejoined the old 
man; “he is makin’ friends of the ‘mammon of un- 
righteousness, ’ and he is so blind thet he do n’t see that 
he’s standin’ in his own light.” 

Here Uncle Joe repeated to Mrs. Conway substan- 
tially the same story that he had told Aunt Samantha 
concerning what he had heard at Hanaford. 

“I told this ter Elder Tribbey, the other day, 
Amelia, and what do ye think he said?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ It ’s no wonder that I am lookin’ sad,” resumed 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 


145 


Uncle Joe, “fur in all the years that I ve been tryin’ 
ter serve God — and that ’s nigh on ter fifty — I never 
had one of the brethren ter question my word.” 

“ Has Elder Tribbey done so ?” inquired Eurilda. 

“Yes, darter,” said the old man, slowly, “he has 
done that very thing. As I war sayin’, I told him 
what I had heard from McCracken and Wale, and says 
he, ‘Brother Sales, I am afraid Ihe devil has been 
temptin’ ye, and ye hev give way. Ye are seekin’ 
honor from men, and want ter have the glory of leadin’ 
a movement ter build a new church in a new place. 
Ye hev failin’ in ter a grievous sin. I know yer have, 
fur I heard a story contrary ter yourn not more than a 
month ago ; and now ye are sinful and foolish enough 
ter try and influence me by somethin’ of yer own git- 
tin’ up.’ ” 

The old man was silent a moment, and then 
resumed: 

“I was astonished beyond measure. But I was 
more so ter see how stubborn the Elder war. He 
would n’t listen ter me, but became angry, and said it 
war a shame that I should set up fer a leader in a gen- 
eration that had growed away beyond my old idears 
and notions.” 

“ How strange that is,” remarked Eurilda. “Elder 
Tribbey always used to think we could not get along 
without you. Uncle Joe. ” 

“ No, darter ; let me remind ye agin that it are not 
very strange. I know what is the matter with Elder 
Tribbey, and who is influencin’ him. It are James 
Sarcott ; and now, Amelia, a part of my errand here 
this mornin’ is ter warn ye agin ter keep out o’ his 
clutches. He hez takin’ away yer horse, so ’s ye can’t 


146 


THE WHJTE CHURCH. 


go ter church. He knew that ye ’d never git ter go 
with Colby Haines. He has Colby where he ’s tryin’ 
ter git a lot more, and yer among them. He wants 
Jake ter stay away, and ter be missin’ when the time 
comes fur his trial ; fur he w^nts ter bring ye inter sole 
dependence on ter him.” 

Mrs. Conway had bowed her head, and her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“I know what ye are a thinkin’ of, Amelia,” con- 
tinued the old man ; he hez a mortgige on yer home ; 
but trust the Lord ter see a way clear out o’ this. 
Don’t let James Sarcott git a mortgige on yer soul. 
Now, see ter it, and I will help yer ter have Jake come 
home at once. He are innercent, and will be cleared ; 
and then, with two strong children like Jake and 
’Rilda, why need ye ter fear trubble?” 

I know I am a fearful, faithless soul,” answered 
the widow, weeping ; “and if I had not been so weak, 
we would not have seen this trouble.” 

Uncle Joe made no reply. He only watched with 
extreme satisfaction the attempts of Eurilda to comfort 
her mother. At last he spoke : 

“ I suppose,” said he, “ that we shall have ter wait 
till fall before we kin have another meetin’ ter decide 
the question of buildin’. I wos over ter Brother Gim- 
ler’s yisterday, and I see that Elder Tribbey has about 
got him convertid to his views. Bro. Gimler has been 
buyin’ some o’ them town lots ; and fer this his wife are 
ter blame. By the way, Amelia, what fur a founda- 
tion is that they ’re layin’ up there beyond the store ?” 

“ Haven’t you heard, Uncle Joe, that Mr. Sarcott 
is going to build a large hall there?” answered Eurilda. 

“A hall!” said Uncle Joe; “ah, yes, I see; he hez 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. I47 

learned nothin’ by kerlamity yit. One would hev 
thought that Mollie Stormer’s explite would hev 
teached him somethin’, but he ’s bound ter go on 
settin’ snares till he’s catched and held.” 

The old man shook his head mournfully, as he 
took his hat to go. 

“ David,” said Mr. Sarcott on the evening that fol- 
lowed Uncle Joe’s visit, “did you say you saw old 
Dad Sales down at the widow’s to-day ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the hostler; “he war there 
when I come by this forenoon. I seed him hitchin’ 
his horse.” 

“He is up to some of his saintly nonsense,” was 
Mr. Sarcott’s soliloquy. “ I will have to go down 
and make another call. I must undo the old man’s 
work. I must weaken the widow’s faith in him, or,” 
he added half aloud, “strengthen it in me.” He 
gave his peculiar chuckle ; he thought he heard it 
prolonged. He listened; “pshaw! it is only an 
echo.” He walked on from the barn toward the 
house, having given David orders to bring the buggy 
around to the front. Again he found himself ill at 
ease. A feeling that what he was about to do was 
exceedingly mean took possession of him. 

“Pshaw! what is the difference? Everybody has 
to hang his pictures to suit him best. One must man- 
age the world to get the best out of it. And then he 
will not get much.” 

“ What is best ?” 

Mr. Sarcott started and turned around. “That 
girl again ! If she would sell her ventriloquism to 
some traveling show she might make a fortune. This 


148 the white church. 

foolish habit of mine, talking aloud, gives her a good 
hold on me.” He looked about expecting to see 
Mary, but there was no one around. “Singular!” 
said he, and resumed his way. 

Twilight had melted into night and in the eastern 
horizon a bright star had poised itself just below the 
disc of the rising moon. It looked full into Mr. Sar- 
cott’s eye, as if to say “I am here; why do you 
not look at me?” And he did look at it. Who made 
it? How came it there? The questions came into 
his mind so suddenly that he almost fancied he heard a 
voice asking them. There was a voice and it was 
clamoring at his heart. “Yes, who made them ? and 
yonder moon, and this rolling earth ? They are here. 
They exist. How came they hung thus in space ?” 

The great man had paused on the step of his house, 
and somehow his eyes were riveted upon the sky. 
“They never sprang into being by chance. There is 
a power behind them.” He could not banish the 
thought nor turn away his eyes from the heavens. “ A 
power 1 yes, and one that thinks and wills, else why 
should that star and that moon follow forever the laws 
of their rising ? Why do they hang thus above, never 
approaching, never receding, never growing brighter 
or dimmer, except as they follow law?” The frag- 
ment of a psalm glided into his mind. He had known 
it in years agone, and now memory, unsolicited, 
brought it back and whispered it into his mind. “The 
heavens declare the glory of God ”- and these words 
were not completed, but were changed into “Justice 
and judgment are the habitation of his throne.” 

The rattling of the buggy broke his reverie, and he 
was glad. “It does make a fellow feel mystified a 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. I49 

little to look at the sky,” said he, inwardly. He 
jumped into his buggy and tried to get rid of his 
thoughts. “Who made them? Who made them ? ” 
kept resounding in his ears until just before he reached 
the cottage, the sound had changed and he heard only 
a whippoorwill vigorously calling from the woodland 
beyond the branch. “Spring is coming,” said he, 
alighting at the widow’s door. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Conway,” said he, as that 
woman opened the door ; “I thought I would quit 
meriting the reproach of indifference, and call now and 
then.” 

Mrs. Conway bowed. She was a little stiff, Mr. 
Sarcott thought. Eurilda had gone to a neighbor’s, and 
this the magnate was glad of 

Mrs. Conway gave him a chair. He sat down, and 
remarked playfully: “Well, I see formality begets 
formality. ‘Amelia’ sounds more natural, doesn’t it?” 

“Of course,” replied the widow; “since you have 
known me from a girl, I suppose it does. ” She paused, 
and there was an awkward silence. Mr. Sarcott broke 
it. 

“Well, to tell the truth, I came down, Amelia, on 
a matter of business. I am sorry Jake has seen fit to 
leave home so suddenly. I may say I am both sorry 
and glad. Sorry for the pain it is causing you, and yet 
glad for the boy’s sake.” 

“ Why glad, James?” asked the widow, quickly, 
and at the same time losing all her reserve. 

“Well,” answered Mr. Sarcott, “I may as well tell 
you a bad piece of news.” 

The widow was nervous, but she managed to say : 
“Nothing worse than I have heard, is it?” 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


150 

‘‘I do not know, Amelia, what new thing you have 
heard lately ; but I know you have not heard this. Dill, 
it seems, is getting cranky ; he professes to think that, 
now Jake is gone, you will be left without means to settle 
an account which has been growing through the winter. 
He was threatening to sue you and attach what little 
personal property he could lay his hands on, but I 
persuaded him not to. Now, I am as good at reveal- 
ing good news as bad. The way I persuaded him 
was to pay the debt myself I have no fears of you, 
Amelia. I know the debt will be paid in your own 
good time. All I want is to be true to my habits of 
business, and have you give me your personal note for 
the amount. It shall never be collected. I will not 
ask it in my lifetime, and if I should ‘ shuffle off,’ as the 
poets say, my will shall be found to order the for- 
giveness of the notes. A little word more, Amelia. 

I hope, for the sake of old acquaintance, you will not 
refuse my assistance for a while, for I tell you candidly, 
Jake will not be in shape to help you much this many 
a day. I think, now he is gone, he had better stay. 

I will see that he enters some honorable business, and 
under an assumed name he may do well until he can be 
honorably cleared.” 

What do you mean, James Sarcott?” asked the 
widow, her eyes suddenly flashing ; “ do you mean that 
Jake can not be honorably acquitted now?” 

Be calm, Amelia,” was the reply ; “ I do mean that 
very thing. I have no doubt that the Italians kindled 
the fire ; nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence 
against Jake is strong. I believe the Italians will let 
the cat out by and by ; but I believe as firmly that if 
Jake stands trial now he will be convicted. One 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. I51 

thing against him is his failure to explain why he was 
out at all that night.” 

“He has explained all to me,” said the widow, 
“and satisfactorily, too.” 

“Well,” rejoined Mr. Sarcott, “the law is a thing 
so uncertain ; and another bad thing is this : our new 
Prosecuting Attorney is a young man, and unusually 
brilliant. He sees in this case a chance to make a 
reputation, and he will improve it.” 

Poor Mrs. Conway 1 Fear again triumphed over faith. 
She recalled Uncle Joe’s admonition of the morning; 
but she was powerless to. heed it. Oh, if Jake should 
come back and be convicted ! The thought absolutely 
terrified her. And yet how should she get along if the 
boy could not help her, and that a great deal ? Alas that 
Eurilda was gone ! Alas that a voice had not whispered 
to the widow when Eurilda went out, a sentiment like 
that of Paul : “ Except these abide in the ship, ye can 
not be saved.” The widow yielded, and signed the 
notes. She thanked Mr. Sarcott for his kindness, and 
tried meanwhile to persuade herself that Uncle Joe was 
mistaken in his opinions. Though Mr. Sarcott remained 
some time longer, he made no other allusion to this 
subject. Shortly after Eurilda returned, he left the 
cottage and proceeded homeward. 

“ I think I ’ll soon have affairs in shape, ” he said to 
himself as he went ; and he gave his accustomed 
chuckle. “ I must look out for any more crazy Mollies, 
though.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A GODLESS TOWN. 

Bob Loomis was wrong in ascribing the delay of 
Jake’s trial to Mr. Sarcott’s machinations. Indeed the 
latter was anxious to have the trial come off, for was he 
not certain that Jake would forfeit his bail ? He would 
pay it and thus strengthen Mrs. Conway’s obligations 
to him. But both Bob and Mr. Sarcott were disap- 
pointed. Hardly had the Court of Common Pleas be- 
gun its session at Hanaford when the District Judge was 
taken ill, and the business of the court delayed. As 
the docket contained but few cases, the business of a 
neighboring district was pressing, and the judge con- 
tinued to fail in health, the sheriff of the county de- 
clared the court adjourned until October. There was 
much vexation in Rising Branch when this became 
known. Every body had counted on Jake’s case being 
settled in June, and took it as a direct insult that the 
judge had been taken sick. 

“ Humph !” exclaimed old Sammie Barstow, as he 
sat on an empty box in front of Mr. Dill’s store dis- 


A GODLESS TOWN. 1 53 

coursing to a motley audience, “humph! that 'ere 
judge hain’t no sicker nor I be.’’ 

“ ’T ain’t the judge,” suggested one of his auditors, 
interrupting him, “it er them there lawyers. There’s 
more business in Simpson County nor we kin shake 
a stick at, and thet pie is got ter be eat afore they com- 
mence onto ours.” 

“Of course it are the lawyers 1” exclaimed a long, 
lean individual clothed in blue jeans, and rolling an im- 
mense quid of tobacco in his mouth, “ and I kin tell ye 
which ones, too.” 

“Who?” demanded the crowd, in one voice, “tell 
us, Bosey. Yes, Bosey, who?” 

Bosey squared himself as if for a conflict ; then, shut- 
ting one eye, he directed a mouthful of tobacco-juice 
against the box on which old Sammie was sitting. 

“ It are Bagster and Coup, them ’s the counsels fur 
that young purp, and they want ter give him more time 
ter git out o’ sight an’ bearin’.’^ 

“Oh, bah!” returned a number of voices. 

“That’s jest what they’re doin’,” said Bosey, pre- 
paring to bombard the box again. 

“See here, Bose Comptin,” exclaimed old Sammie, 
getting down from the box in great wrath, “ now thet ’s 
enough o’ thet. I want yer ter understand thet I ain’t 
a targit to fire yer terbacker agin.” 

“ Who ’s firin’ agin yer?” demanded Bosey. 

“ He ain’t come within four feet of yer, Sam,” said 
some one. 

“Yes, hehez,” said some one else, angrily, “he 
hez spit on Sam’s pants. 

“Thet ’s a lie!” shouted Bosey. 


154 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Call me a liar ?” exclaimed the first speaker, '‘take 
that ! ” 

“Hold on! hold on!’’ and two or three strong 
hands seized the descending arm, and saved Bosey from 
the blow. 

A general melee now followed, mingled with oaths 
and angry cursings. 

“Oh, James! James !” cried poor little Mr. Dill, 
who had retreated into the store at the first sound of 
war, “ where is the marshal ? Oh, we shall all be shot.” 
The clerk made no reply to his nervous master, but 
hastened to the door. There was a little scattering at 
his approach. The fighting ceased ; a few oaths, how- 
ever, fell from the lips of the combatants, like the mut- 
tering of distant thunder when the storm has past. 

Bosey was wiping the blood from his face when 
Uncle Joe Sales rode up on his old horse. 

“Boys! Boys!” exclaimed the old man, earnestly, 
“ what on airth !” 

Bosey and old Sammie skulked away at Uncle Joe’s 
approach. Several others slunk into the store. 

“ Boys,” said the old man to the few who remained, 
“ I hev lived fur fifty years in this neighborhood, and I 
hev never before seed anything ez disgraceful as 
this.” 

“Guess you haven’t been in town lately, have 
you?” remarked a smooth-faced, impudentdooking 
young man. 

Uncle Joe merely eyed the speaker, but deigned 
him no reply. 

“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, raising his eyes 
toward heaven, and seeming rather to address the sun 
than any one present, ‘ ‘ oh, that Mr. Dill will parsist 


A GODLESS TOWN. 1 55 

in sellin ’ this demon drink, ter madden the souls of his 
neighbors !” 

“Dill hain ’t sold no likker ter this crowd,” ex- 
claimed some one. 

“ Liquor! liquor! who says I sold liquor to these 
men?” said Mr. Dill himself, approaching the door 
cautiously. 

“Oh, Mr. Sales,” said he, as his eyes fell upon 
Uncle Joe, “ I am so glad you have happened by. If 
these men are in liquor they must have got it up at the 
other place.” Mr. Dill here indicated his meaning with 
his head. 

“ Other place ! other place!” exclaimed Uncle Joe, 
in great astonishment. “ Hez this Prince of the Power 
of Fire fixed himself at another place in this vil- 
lage?” 

“ I think the old man must have got behind on the 
daily news,” remarked the smooth-faced young man. 

Uncle Joe, as before, paid him no attention, but 
looking on the rest, said solemnly, and in a voice that 
commanded attention : 

“Boys, I hev ayther read or heerd tell how thet 
genys, or some such bein ’s, could do things in the 
twinklin ’ of yer eye. I heerd how that in a single 
night they could build a king’s palace, or lift one up, 
towers an * all, an’ carry it over the sea. Of course I 
never put no faith in them tales. I hev knowed they 
was only fickshuns. But it seems sometimes as if the 
doin ’s of them genys was bein ’s realized in the work 
of old King Alkerhel. He builds no palace, but in a 
single night he sets down his foot, an ’ lo ! where ther ’ 
was no rum-shop before, behold yer ! ther ’ it is. I 
never visit Hanaford or Carterville, but I see another 


156 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


groggery added to them as is already ther’, and I 
ain^t surprised ter find them any wher’.” 

“Some genie has set his foot down here since you 
were up last, old man.” The speaker was the smooth- 
faced young man, but he elicited no reply from Uncle 
Joe. 

“Well, the truth is,” said Mr. Dill, leading Uncle 
Joe aside, and talking in an undertone, “that since poor 
Jeff Stormer got burnt out he has been in a bad way. 
He had nothing left at all, and after Mollie went to the 
asylum, Jeff took a notion to start a little saloon. He 
thought he could make it pay, at least while they were 
building the road, and he opened up last week.” 

“Jeff Stormer! ” exclaimed Uncle Joe. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Dill, “yonder is his shop,” 
and he pointed to a little square building that had evi- 
dently gone up very recently on the site of the board- 
ing house. 

“You say,” said Uncle Joe, “ thet Jeff had nothin’ 
left?” 

“Nothing at all,” answered Mr. Dill. 

“ How, then, could he set up a saloon?” asked the 
old man. 

Mr. Dill stammered a little and blushed. 

“ Ah, oh yes, of course ! I said everything. I think 
there was a little money coming to him, and I suppose 
he used this.” 

“Another coil the sarpint hez wrapped around 
him,” said Uncle Joe to himself. “I thought as how 
he might leave him after swallerin’ up his substance, 
but sarpint-like, he’ll kill him afore he unwinds.” 

Mr. Dill had gone into the store to wait on a cus- 


A GODLESS TOWN I 57 

tomer and hither Uncle Joe followed him, made the 
purchase of a few groceries, and went home. 

It *s the last time,’' soliloquized the old man as he 
rode along, ‘ ‘ only starn necessity hez compelled me to 
buy anything where liquid death is dealt out to men.” 

I know,” he continued, “ where Jeff got his money 
and who has parsuaded him ter this ; but” (this he said 
after a long pause), “the judgmints of God are sure, 
yes, sure, sure.” 

Scenes such as we have described were common 
in Rising Branch during the summer. A keen sense 
of disappointment was felt by all the villagers at the 
delay in opening the railroad. The disaster caused by 
Mollie Stormer was more serious than at first supposed. 
Every energy, however, was exerted by Mr. Sarcott 
to complete the road by early winter. He doubled his 
force of workmen, a new boarding-house was built and 
given to the charge of Colby Haines, and the village of 
Rising Branch took on new appointments to accommo- 
date the increasing population. So the summer rolled 
away and the autumn came again. Gangs of workmen 
gathered in Jeff’s saloon or Mr. Dill’s store, smoking 
and idling away the beautiful nights. A brawl hardly 
created a passing comment now, but off in the sur- 
rounding country the godlessness of Rising Branch had 
become a proverb. The new dancing hall was almost 
completed and a grand opening of the same had been 
announced. The interest in this and in the completion 
of the road had now well nigh absorbed all there was 
in the fate of Jake Conway, even the October session 
of court drew on almost unnoticed. 

Thus matters stood when at the close of a Septem- 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


158 

ber day two strangers arrived in the village. They 
alighted from the mail hack in front of Mr. Dill’s store. 
One of them was a man of medium size, dressed in a 
suit of light gray. He was slightly corpulent ; his face 
was cleanly shaven, and he wore a moustache well 
waxed and curled at the ends. A heavy gold watch 
chain, which his cut-away coat set off to perfection, 
crossed his closed vest and reflected the brightness of 
the brooch he wore in his necktie. He carried a square 
satchel covered on the ends with large brass tacks. 
The other man was taller than his comrade and more 
plainly dressed. He wore a loose fitting suit of navy 
blue. His eyes were light and his sandy beard came 
to a sharp point far below his collar. He also carried 
a satchel, but it was of leather and evidently intended 
for nothing but wearing apparel. The two men entered 
the store, around whose door a gaping crowd had col- 
lected to see what new thing under the sun would be 
brought to view by the mail hack. Both were greeted 
cordially by Mr. Dill. 

“Accommodations? Certainly, gentlemen. Rising 
Branch is second to no town of its size in that regard. 
Right this way. James, you show them up to Colby’s. 
Just opened out, gentlemen. You’ll find everything 
in apple-pie order there, I assure you. Anything in 
your line ? Ah ! well, let me see, well, ah, of course 
you ’ll be with us to-morrow. I can talk to you then. 
This mail business you see has to be attended to, but 
we can have time enough to-morrow.” 

The clerk, who seemed impatient to go, now started 
and was followed by both men. Each of them gave 
the store a scrutinizing glance as they went out, and 


A GODLESS TOWN. 1 59 

the man in navy blue paused a moment at the side-door 
and glanced into the bar-room. 

The new boarding house had indeed been fitted up 
in excellent style. Tavern accommodations had been 
added to it and the two men soon found themselves the 
guests of Mr. Colby Haines. 

“My son, gentlemen,” said Mr. Haines presenting 
a young man of about twenty. “He has charge of 
things here. You see I am not managing it myself, as 
the boy and his wife need something to do, you know. 
He will take care of you in a manner worthy of a 
growing town, ha! ha! ” 

The elder Haines disappeared and the young man 
proceeded to do the host for his guests. 

“Ride a little dusty,” said he affably, “perhaps 
you would take something before supper. We Ve just 
added a new feature. See here ! ” He pushed open a 
green door of lattice work and displayed a small room 
furnished with all the necessaries of a bar. 

The man in navy blue turned to his companion with 
a significant look. 

“Isn’t that three? ” asked he in a low tone. The 
other nodded. “Let us see,” resumed the first one, 
“There was one on the left a little after we entered 
town, and another at the store.” 

“So much the better for me,” remarked the corpu- 
lent man. 

“ What ?” said the other, “you don’t mean to say 
that — ” 

“That’s what I sell,” responded the party ad- 
dressed, “and I think I have struck a bonanza here. 

“No doubt, ” answered the man in blue, dryly, 
“but you will excuse me, I never drink.” 


i6o 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“All right,” returned the corpulent man, “I can 
not say that, but my object is mainly to sample. I don ’t 
think they can equal anything I have in my stock.” 

The man in blue shook his head and said, doubt- 
fully, looking around for an auditor : 

“If you can sell much it is evident that I can sell 
little.” 

“That’s where you’re just right, stranger.” The 
man turned and confronted Bob Loomis, who sat near 
the bar-room door smoking a pipe. Bob continued : 
“Asa gen ’ral thing, stranger, yer remark whacks the 
nail on the ^head, but as ter the case in hand. Bob 
Loomis will never tack another shoe if either of ye sell 
much in this town.” 

“ Why not?” asked the sranger. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yer go and try, and yer kin test what I tell 
yer ; I can ’t give yer no reasons. ” 

The stranger looked puzzled, but remarked: “You 
have a great many saloons for so small a place, have 
you not?” 

“You ’re right agin,” answered Bob. “ This un is 
a new wrinkle ; did n’t know of it myself till day afore 
yisterday. ” 

The corpulent man now returned, wiping his lips, 
and both were conducted by Colby Haines, Jr., to the 
dining-room for supper. 

We will presently follow these strangers separately; 
but before we do so, we ask you, reader, to walk with 
them both as they took a morning stroll through Rising 
Branch village. 

They were both on the walk before the boarding- 
house bright and early. 

“Come,” said the corpulent man, “we can take 


A GODLESS TOWN. l6l 

the lay of the land before breakfast. They have a 
nobby little town here.” 

“Yonder is the fellow I saw in here last night,” 
said the man in blue ; “he is acquainted here, and I 
will ask him to show us around.” 

Bob, who had just sauntered out, gladly undertook 
the office, and the trio started down the street. 

“What’s this?” asked the corpulent man, whom 
we must now call Mr. Skain, pointing to a large frame 
building between the boarding-house and Mr. Dill’s 
store. 

“See here!” answered Bob, tapping a large poster 
that flared from a board fence along the walk. 

“Hal” said Mr. Skain, “ a dancing-hall, hey I and 
bowling alley? Going to have an opening. When ?” 

“ Next week,” answered Bob, “and I hope it will be 
a decent one. ” 

“A decent one I what do you mean?” asked Mr. 
Skain. 

Bob related the event that had occurred at the 
opening of Mr. Dill’s store. Mr. Skain only shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“What a fine house have we there?” said he, point- 
ing to Mr. Sarcott’s residence. 

“Yes,^’ answered Bob, “and that big one over by 
the crossing belongs ter Colby Haines, the old man 
yer seed fust in the tavern last night. 

‘ ‘ Here is a fine row of little cottages, ” remarked Mr. 
Bowen, the man in blue, as they passed four gothic 
cottages that had been built during the summer. 
“Whose are they?” asked he of Bob. 

“Well,” answered the smith slowly, “I reckon 
they belong ter the fellows that lives in ’em. Some 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


162 

chaps as hez moved in from the country since the road 
war decided on. Most of ’em war farmers afore.” 

What do they do now?” asked Mr. Skain. 

Bob pointed to the foundations of a large building 
just in sight, near to the railroad embankment, and not 
far from the branch. 

“Sarcott’s new grist and flax mill,” said he; 
^‘some of these fellers are goin’ in there, some are 
workin’ on the road.” 

“Well!” said Mr. Skain, in some surprise; “I 
heard they were booming this town, but I am aston- 
ished at their rapidity. The accident last spring has 
not delayed matters much.” 

“No,” answered Bob, “not a great deal. The 
crazy gal’s explite only gave the old man more grit. 
He has made things livelier than ever.” 

“The old man?” 

“Yes; Mr. Sarcott, who runs things here pretty 
much.” 

“Well, my hearty, ” said Mr. Skain, slapping Mr. 
Bowen on the shoulder, “there is business here, and 
no mistake. There is a good day before us ; let us go 
to breakfast.” 

Mr. Bowen made no reply, but kept turning his 
head here and there as though looking for some- 
thing. 

“Where is your church?” he asked, abruptly. 

Mr. Skain opened his eyes and fixed them sharply 
on the speaker. 

Bob answered his question : 

“ Church 1 Why, ther ain ’t none. Thet is ter say, 
there ain ’t none in town. There ’s one down ter 
Craggy Hill, three miles from here.” 


A GODLESS TOWN. 1 63 

“No church in a town of this size?” exclaimed 
Mr. Bowen. 

“Not a shingle of one,” said Bob. 

“You go to church, do you, my friend?” asked 
Mr. Skain. 

“Whenever I can,” was the reply of Mr. Bowen. 

“ I don’t take any stock in them,” said Mr. Skain. 

‘ ‘ The thing I look for in a town is snap-^^^V , as the 
boys say.” 

“You think there is lots of it here, do you?” 
asked Mr. Bowen. 

“Foolish question!” replied Mr. Skain, waving 
his hand. “ If this town is not booming I have missed 
my guess. One, two, three, ” said he, holding up his 
hand, and indicating the number with his fingers. 

* ‘ Oh, ho, old boy ! they make business ; they do in- 
deed I” 

“We’ll see,” said Mr. Bowen, quietly, as they re- 
turned to retrace their steps. 

The two gentlemen were not allowed to sit in the 
common dining-room, where a score or more railroad 
hands were breakfasting, but had a neat little alcove to 
themselves. When they had finished their meal, Mr. 
Skain, complacently picking his teeth, went to the great 
room door, and stood a while surveying the boarders. 

“ Money is moving here,” said he, as he came back 
to Mr. Bowen. 

“Satan, too,” was the dry rejoinder. 

The two men separated after breakfast, Mr. Skain 
taking his satchel. He went at once to Mr. Dill’s 
store, and thither we will follow him. 

Mr. Dill was in, but evidently seemed annoyed at 
seeing his visitor. 


64 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“Well, now,” said Mr. Skain, as he opened the 
satchel and spread on the counter samples of wines, 
cordials, gins, and a variety of other liquors, ‘ ‘ you can 
do better with us then with any other firm in the coun- 
try. See here,” said he, leaning across the counter 
and pulling Mr. Dill toward him, “we can do the 
handsome thing for you on these. The firm took them 
in at a bankrupt sale, and we’ll give you special 
prices.” 

“Oh, indeed!” replied Mr. Dill. “I have no doubt 
of it, my friend ; but you see I can do nothing to-day ; 
money is close, and, and, ah — ” 

“Sixty days I” said Mr. Skain, eagerly, “and see 
here : seeing its you, and we want to get our goods in 
here, you can have ninety.” 

“Indeed, I cannot buy to-day, ” answered Mr. Dill, 
nevously, and with the air of one who feared his tor- 
mentor, “indeed, I can do nothing now; you see, ah, 
I am — that is, I am, or — I mean I must consult — ” 

“What! are you not alone here?” asked Mr. 
Skain, glancing around. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mr. Dill, “but I mean 
I must consult my means ; ah, yes ! Indeed, sir, I can 
do nothing for you to-day.” 

“ But your stock is low,” persisted Mr. Skain. 

“Well, yes; but then, indeed, sir, I must refuse; 
I have some reasons — I mean — that is, I mean I have 
some thoughts of- — ” 

“Selling out?” 

“Ah, yes, that is it, ” replied Mr. Dill; “ but it ’s 
a matter of business — private, you-know.” 

Mr. Skain closed his satchel in disappointment, 


A GODLESS TOWN. 1 65 

while Mr. Dill, glad to relieve himself, even with a 
falsehood, bade him a nervous good-bye. 

From Mr. Dill’s, Mr. Skain repaired to the saloon 
of Jeff Stormer. 

“ Why, you have nothing at all in here,” said he, 
unclosing the satchel. “ I am just the chap for you, 
old fellow.” 

“You’re right there,” answered Jeff; “nothin’ 
here — not even money.” 

“Sixty days,” said Mr. Skain; “and let me tell 
you, old man, you’ll lead everything in this town if 
you put in these.” 

Jeff looked at the samples with a longing eye. 

“ The other fellows have nothing like them,” urged 
Mr. Skain. 

Jeff only shook his head, nor could a full hour’s 
pleading on the part of Mr. Skain induce him to 
invest. 

“ I will believe what blue-coat says,, if I fail here,” 
said he, as in a wearied manner he deposited his satchel 
in his room at the tavern. 

After dinner he sought the bar- room and displayed 
his samples. Young Colby Haines was in attendance, 
and no one else was present. The young man’s face 
was red, and he bore marks of having recently in- 
dulged in liquor. 

“ I ain’t any ’thority,” said he, in a thick voice, as 
he viewed the samples. 

“ What do you mean?” asked Mr. Skain. 

“ The old man ’s the boss,” answered young Colby. 

“ You mean your father?” 

No,” replied the young man. 

“Who, then?” 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


1 66 


‘ ' Take a little o’ this brandy, stranger, and then 
give me your ear.” 

Mr. Skain readily complied, and the loose-tongued 
host half whispered : 

“You see, the old man has got most of us here on 
the hip.” 

“ What old man ?” 

“ I mean Sarcott.” 

“ What, the contractor?” 

“Yes; he’s the chap that is really behind these 
bars, everyone of them.” 

“ Where does he buy?” 

‘ ‘ Buy ! why, man, he is in the big distillery at 
Hanaford.” 

“His name does not appear in the firm.” 

“ Oh, he comes in under the ‘ Co.’ He is one of 
them, sure.” 

Mr. Skain closed his satchel again, and his face 
wore a look of disgust. 

Toward evening Mr. Bowen appeared, and was im- 
mediately hailed by Mr. Skain : 

“ Been in the country ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Sell any fanning mills?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Let ’s stroll out a little while, and I will explain,” 
answered Mr. Bowen. 

The men walked slowly toward the Branch, and 
when clear out of hearing of the village, Mr. Bowen 
said : 

“Do you know that two-thirds of the men I visited 
are living on rented farms?” 


A GODLESS TOWN. 


167 


Indeed ?” 

‘‘Yes; and few of them have any money.” 

“ Where are the owners of the farms?” asked Mr. 
Skain. 

“ Most of them have moved here to the village.” 

“ Oh, they are the fellows that are building these 
new houses — some for stores, and one or two for other 
purposes.” 

“ Yes ; a big frame at the lower end for a livery 
stable.” 

‘ ^ And that blacksmith told me the one by it was 
to be a packing-house.” 

“And the farms are mortgaged,” said Mr. Bowen. 

“So?” 

“Yes; and the money in railroad stock, or in these 
new projects.” 

“Well, you must have been getting at the inside 
of matters. Do you know who holds these mort- 
gages?” 

“ One man holds a number of them, and runs the 
whole village. They say he opposes church.” 

“ He ’s none the worse for that.” 

“ He would have a better town if he didn’t oppose 
it, even if you look at it from a money standpoint. 
Some of these fellows that he has roped in will have 
lost so much grace, that they will play quits with him 
at his own game before long. Well, did you find busi- 
ness booming ?” 

“I found out that the one-man business has killed 
it for me.” 

“What a shame,” said Mr. Bowen, “that men 
should allow one man to enslave them thus, and even 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


1 68 

while doing so take measures to exclude the institution 
that would open their eyes to his wiles.” 

*‘What institution do you mean ?” 

An enlightened church,” replied Mr. Bowen, em- 
phatically. 

‘‘A church wouldn’t have helped me to sell 
liquor.” 

‘‘It would have helped me to sell fanning mills,” 
said Mr. Bowen. 

“Oh, pshaw !” 

“Yes, it would; legitimate business — I say it 
boldly — will not flourish in a godless community. If 
these town men had been where they ought to be, on 
their farms, I would have another report to make.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A SHOT THAT MISSED. 

October came. Again the fox grapes ripened along 
the Branch, and tjie dry winds rattled the chestnuts to 
the ground. Craggy Hill was wrapped in the glories 
of an unusual autumn. Never before had the forest 
worn such a dress. The dark green hemlocks and the 
pines made brighter the yellow oaks, and brought a 
richer crimson from the scattered maples. 

^‘Ther’ ain’t bin no frost,” said Uncle Joe, ‘^and 
the leaves is just dyin ’ of old age.” 

The woods were full of sound. In the limbs of the 
shell-bark hickory chattered the squirrel, stopping anon 
to listen to the pheasant, drumming from some hollow 
log. The fields gave back the busker’s shout, and 
from the roadside press the laugh of the cider-maker 
mingled with the grinder’s hum. Surrounded by these 
signs and scenes was the old meeting-house. On that 
Lord’s day nearest to the middle of the month, it stood 
with open door as if inviting the last church meeting it 
should ever see. The services of the morning were 
over, and Elder Tribbey said that now while all the 


I/O THE WHITE CHURCH. 

congregation was represented, the final vote on build- 
ing ought to be taken. 

Father Leeb was present, and arose with difficulty 
to the floor. He leaned upon his cane and spoke with 
a feeble voice : 

“ Brethring, ye all know that Bro. Joseph Sales is 
sick. I war to his house yesterday, and I found him 
hevin ’ a shake ; he war terribly anxious ter be here ter- 
day, for he had some words ter say. I see he are absent, 
and I feel as though we orter wait another week till he 
kin be with us, before we go further. I say this, ’cause 
I am told as how this vote settles the matter furever. ” 

The old man had hardly paused before Elder Trib- 
bey was on his feet. 

Brethren,” said he, ‘‘this was the day appointed 
to take this vote, and I do not see that any one man 
among us is so necessary that we cannot get along with- 
out him. If Bro. Sales is sick, I am sorry ; but he has 
but one vote any how, and from what I can learn that 
one vote cannot, as matters stand now, change the re- 
sult. I am anxious that we settle the question, for 
whatever we decide to do we ought to be at.” 

‘ ‘ I should think it would be well to hear from Bro. 
Sales at least,” suggested Mr. Gaines, the old pastor. 
Elder Tribbey gave the old man a fierce look, and he 
immediately added, “ but perhaps, as the season is 
growing late, we ought not to delay.” 

There was some murmuring among the congrega- 
tion, and some one even ventured to suggest that it was 
hardly fair to push the decision now, even though it 
was the appointed time. 

Elder Tribbey was irritated, but he controlled 
himself and said : “We all know pretty much what 


A SHOT THAT MISSED. 


I7I 

Bro. Sales’ views on this question are. If he were 
here, he would do no more than to make a plea for his 
favorite hobby ; but pleas go but for little when facts 
are before us. I know that pretty much every member 
of this congregation sees, that even if we wanted to, it 
is too late to talk of building at the village. Land there 
has risen to fabulous prices, and all desirable places are 
occupied.” 

“Well, seems to me,” spoke up old Mother Cran- 
shaw, suddenly, “that some of our good brethren 
might donate a lot. I understand they have several 
there.” 

Elder Tribbey and Bro. Gimler both got very red, 
but affected not to notice the remark. 

A general tittering pervaded the congregation, 
which was stopped by the entrance of two well-dressed 
strangers. 

Leaving the congregation at this stage of its pro- 
ceedings, we will ask the reader to follow, with us, a 
buggy that on this same forenoon rolled out of the vil- 
lage and took the road to Craggy Hill. 

The mail hack had brought Messrs. McCracken and 
Wale, of Hanaford, to Rising Branch the preceding 
afternoon. What they did there we need not ask, but 
we may be permitted to catch a little of their conver- 
sation as they drove along. 

“I can not say that I ever felt great interest in re- 
ligious affairs,” remarked Mr. Wale, “but it is plain to 
me that our religious men are the most valuable to us ; 
I am afraid Sarcott has taken the wrong view of this 
phase of the question at any rate.” 

‘ ^ He has, as sure as you live, ” added Mr. McCracken, 
“I claim the church is useful; a man must be addle- 


\J2 


THE WHITE CHURCH, 


brained not to see that it is above the school in this re- 
gard. It is not your smart men that make the best 
hands; the State prison is ^ull of smart men.” 

“I don’t know but it takes a smart man to get 
there,” said Mr. Wale, laughing. 

“It does,” replied Mr. McCracken; “ but as I was 
saying, we need something more than smartness to make 
good workmen. I sometimes wish I were what you 
might call a spiritual chemist and could analyze some 
of the stuff they call religion ; for I would like to know 
what element of excellence it adds to the boys down 
in our lower mill.” 

“Let’s see, don’t all our boys there belong to 
church?” asked Mr. Wale. 

“No,” was the reply, “not more than two-thirds ; 
but then, these determine the entire spirit of the mill 
and constitute the boys practically alike. They are the 
best set of fellows I ever dealt with in my life, and I 
have had experience with hundreds.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Wale, “there is no use of our 
talking about investing in this town if Sarcott’s notions 
mould its development. Strange that so sharp a busi- 
ness man fails to see his greatest mistake.” 

“I don’t know as Sarcott’s notions will mould the 
development of Rising Branch entirely,” said Mc- 
Cracken. “They say the old church down here at 
Craggy Hill is to fight its way into town. Let us see, 
anyhow, whether it is successful before we do any- 
thing.” 

The two men drove on in silence some distance 
further, enjoying the clear, pure air, and feasting their 
eyes on the autumn beauty around them. They had 
arrived at a place where the road forked, one branch 


A SHOT THAT MISSED. 


173 


leading up past the dam to Uncle Joe’s, the other along 
the edge of the woods toward the church. The old 
house was just discernable among the trees. 

“Oh, say!” exclaimed Mr. Wale, abruptly, 
“somebody in the village was telling me that they 
were going to decide that church question to-day. 
Suppose we drop into the did house. We are only out 
for a ride, and have time enough ; besides, I used to go 
to church in my young days here, and I would like to 
see how it looks.” 

A broad smile settled on Elder Tribbey’s face as he 
recognized the strangers. Bro. Gimler was just about to 
put the question, and he rapped on the desk to get the 
attention of the heads that were turning backward to 
find out the cause of the interruption. 

“All who are in favor of building a house at the 
village, please rise to their feet.” 

About half a dozen. Father Leeb included, arose. 

“All who are in favor of building on the old site, 
signify by the same sign.” 

The rest of the congregation arose. 

“The old hypocrite I” whispered Mother Cranshaw 
to her nearest seat-mate, “he has been electioneering 
for this all summer.” 

Meeting was hardly out before Elder Tribbey 
sought the strangers ; but they had gone. 

“ Not likely the old man will like it,” remarked the 
Elder to Bro. Gimler on the road home. 

“I feel a little sorry for him, too,” answered Bro. 
Gimler, a little remorsefully ; “ it has been a favorite 
scheme of his so long, and I really think he believed it 
necessary.” 

“Nonsense, Anthony,” replied the Elder; “old 


174 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Joe has a great bump of self-conceit. What he wanted 
was to be regarded as a sort of Solomon. Lessons like 
this do such men good.” 

Anthony Gimler made no reply, but rode on with 
an unquiet mind. 

I must go to town to-day,” said Elder Tribbey to 
his wife on the Wednesday after the church meeting; 
and to town he went. He was disappointed at finding 
Mr. Sarcott absent. He entered Mr. Dill’s store to 
buy some groceries, 

“ Well, Elder,” said Mr. Dill, as he tied up a pack- 
age of sugar, “so the Hanaford men have gone back 
on you.” 

“ What do you mean ?” demanded the Elder. 

“Why,” answered Mr Dill, retreating a little and 
watching the cloud that was darkening the Elder’s 
face, “I thought you had heard. McCracken and 
Wale have thrown up their project of investing here.” 

The Elder choked back his astonishment, and in a 
tone of forced calmness asked : 

“ Why was that ?” 

“When they heard that you fellows down at 
Craggy Hill had decided not to build your church up 
here, they threw up the sponge. It seems they have a 
notion that a good church is a powerful factor in help- 
ing to manage sets of workmen.” 

Elder Tribbey’s face was a study. He sought his 
carriage in silence, leaving a third of his purchases on 
Mr. Dill’s counter. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


MR. SARCOTT SURPRISED. 

The grand opening of the dancing hall, that had 
been announced for some weeks, came off in due time. 
Jennie Sarcott, Will Timmons, and even Nannie, were 
in attendance. 

‘‘O papal” cried Jennie the next morning, as she 
greeted her father in the dining-room, ^‘wasn’t it de- 
lightful ? I am so glad you have fitted up a stage, too. 
We can have operas now, after the railroad is finished. 
Oh, d-e-a-r,” concluded she, with a yawn. 

Mr. Sarcott’s reply was not enthusiastic. ^ ‘ It was 
very successful, child,” he said, a little coldly. He 
seemed anxious to turn the subject, and did so without 
ceremony by asking for Nannie. 

“She is asleep yet,” said Jennie; “she says she 
wants to get a good rest for Saturday night. So do I, 
too, and I am going to ask Mary to do the work.” 

“Jennie, do your share of the work, or stay at 
home in the future,” replied her father sternly; but at 
that moment he turned his back and did not see the ma- 
licious grimace that the young lady made. 


17s 


1/6 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Mr. Sarcott sought his room. In the hall he met 
Mary, whom he admonished not to wake Nannie. 

“lam afraid,” said he, after he reached his room, 

‘ ‘ that the girls will get to liking this thing too well ; I 
am not at home enough to curb them, and they do n’t 
like Mary. I must hurry up the widow. I think she 
could manage them, and I could get rid of Mary.” 

“You could have kept away temptation easier than 
you can bring in the widow to shield your children ‘ 
from it.” 

“I thought I met that girl in the hall,” said Mr. 
Sarcott, going to the door and peering over the ban- 
nister. There was no one in sight. 

“I wonder if I imagine that I hear these voices,” 
said he; “they are not of the Joan of Arc kind, or I 
might think so,” he added, as he returned to his chair. 
On the table before him lay a pile of letters, and he 
busied himself for some time reading them. 

“ I will have to patch up an explanation for Squire 
Tribbey when I meet him,” said he, after he had fin- 
ished the letters. ‘ ‘ I really had no idea that Mc- 
Cracken and Wale would back out in this way, though. 
Well, I ’m glad the church business is settled; that’s 
what I was after, and what’s good is good.” Here he 
chuckled 

“Now,” he continued, “after this trial is called, I 
think I will arrange matters with the widow. Ha! ha 1” 
He tied up the letters in a neat package, and, putting 
them in his pocket, went to the stable. 

“David,” said he to the hostler, “you may hitch 
up the black mare and drive me to Hanaford this after- 
noon. I shall want to be there to-morrow anyhow, and 
1 have other business that I can do to-day.” 


MR. SARCOTT SURPRISED. I// 

Won’t I hev ter be ther myself ter-morrer, sir?” 
asked David. 

“ Has the sheriff summoned you ?” 

‘‘Yes, sir; he war here yisterday when you war 
gone, and I ’spect he sarved a lot of papers in town.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Sarcott, “as the defendant has 
jumped his bail, there can be no trial. I want to be 
there, but you will not be needed.” 

“Mr. Sarcott,” said David, with some hesitation, 
and at the same time looking to see that they were 
alone, “I hev a matter on my mind, and it keeps a 
cornin’ up ter bother me. I promised not ter tell, but 
I hev a sense of duty, sir ; it are hefty inside o’ me, as 
’twere, an’ I must speak. Seein’, too, as you’re my 
master, ’t ain’t nowise right as thet I should keep this 
still.” 

“Speak out, David; what now?” said Mr. Sarcott. 

“Mr. Sarcott,” resumed David, slowly, “do yer 
think this trial' are n’t cornin’ off? If yer think that 
way, yer fooled. Look here, sir: Jake Conway are 
back.” 

“ Back?” gasped the astonished Mr. Sarcott. . 

“He — are — back!” said David, dwelling on each 
word with solemn emphasis. 

“ How do you know ?” 

‘ ‘ Bob Loomis let it out ter me last night arter the 
dance ” 

“Put up the harness for the present, David,” said 
the great man ; “I believe I will not go at once.” 

He was, to all outward appearance, perfectly calm, 
and David watched him as he took his way hurriedly 
toward the store. 


78 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


When he was gone, David began a grotesque per- 
formance. ‘^Now you hoof-shaver,” said he, dancing 
on the barn floor and shaking his fist in the direction of 
Bob’s shop, “you old sledge-swinger, you tarnal sally- 
mander, you ’ve bin a wantin’ this place of old Dave’s 
fur more years than one. You’ve bin thick with the 
old man, an’ only waitin’ ter see this chicken bounced ; 
but now I hev got yer. Felt mighty big goin’ up in 
his liberry an’ consultin’ an’ wire-pullin’ yer way in ; but 
I give yer story away, fool yer war ter tell me.” 

David indulged in these extravagances for a full 
hour, stopping at frequent intervals to congratulate 
himself that the danger of Bob’s usurping his position 
was forever past. 

“ Come here. Dill/’ said Mr. Sarcott, as he entered 
the store. Mr. Dill was reading a newspaper ; folding 
it, he complied at once. 

“Have you heard that Jake Conway has come 
back ?” 

“Jake Conway back!” exclaimed Mr. Dill. 

“Yes, Dill, I have reason to believe that he is, 
and that he will appear when his trial is called to- 
morrow. Now, this will break my plans up, you 
know.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Dill, with a half-frightened 
look, “ah, yes, sir; and — and — 

“Do n’t get nervous now ; you are next thing to a 
baby. I like to see some nerve now and then. I want 
that boy convicted ; that ’s the only thing I can do now. 
After I get things fixed he can be pardoned out of jail, 
but I want to be rid of him for a while. You know 
why. I fear that blacksmith has played me false. I ’ll 


MR. SARCOTT SURPRISED. 1 79 

make it hot for him, and for you, too, if you don’t 
walk chalk. You understand ?” 

^‘Oh, yes, sir,” answered Mr. Dill, in great trepi- 
dation. 

I want you to go to Hanaford to-morrow ; you are 
summoned on this case anyhow. I want you to swear 
that the boy got a can of oil from you the night of the 
fire.” 

Mr. • Dill was pale as a ghost. 

“Oh, do n’t get pale. I want you to swear, too, 
that Jake remarked to you on one occasion that if Mike 
Follin were out of the way there would be a chance 
for the rest of the boys. Do you understand?” 

Yes, sir,” squeaked Mr. Dill, shaking like a leaf. 

“Now keep quiet, and I will see one or two of the 
Italians. ” 

He left the store, and hurried toward the railroad. 

“ I would like to know what under the sun is the 
explanation of the matter ; but I must avoid the widow 
for the present. Plague it, I am driven to this step. 
Some of her friends have been acting the fool, and have 
the boy back. I am afraid they have corrupted Bob, 
too.” 

“Corrupted! Ha! ha! ha!” 

Mr. Sarcott halted. “ Pshaw !” said he, looking up 
and listening, “I believe my ear-drums are abnormally 
sensitive.” 

He waited a moment before proceeding. There 
was no sound but the cawing of a crow on the rail fence 
near by. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE TRIAL. 

The Grand Jury had indicted Jake for arson simply. 
To answer to this charge, he had been awaiting the 
action of the Court of Common Pleas. No doubt the 
reader is anxious to know where he had been waiting, 
and how Bob Lopmis managed to have him on hand 
to Mr. Sarcott’s disgust. In order to pick up several 
stitches we have dropped, especially in the history of 
Bob, we will go back for some distance in this story. 
About three days before the mad exploit of Mollie 
Stormer, Bob was alone at home, “ Laury ” having 
gone out. He had come from the shop, and was not a 
little provoked at finding such slim indications of sup- 
per. A hot fire was burning in the stove, however, 
and a note, scrawled rudely with red ink, informed him 
that Laury had been hastily called to assist Mrs. Dill, 
who was sick. The note informed him further that he 
might expect to be alone the greater part of the night, 
and ended by describing the exact whereabouts of such 
victuals as would, if properly cooked, satisfy his hunger. 

“That are a pritty idea, ” said Bob, throwing the 
note back upon the table. “I’m in fine trim fur 


THE TRIAL. 


l8l 


cookin’, tired as a horse and blacker ’n a ton o’ char- 
coal. Well ” (he lowered his voice, and there was a 
depth of real feeling in his tones) “ I know she would n’t 
hev gone this time o’ the evenin’ if suthin’ more ’n 
ordinary warn’t ter pay. I might as well knuckle down 
an’ make the best out of it.” 

Bob’s culinary gymnastics would not have edified 
Laury. It is sufficient here to say that his supper was 
very frugal. He looked at his burnt potatoes with a 
rueful countenance, and to make amends for the weak 
coffee, he soon lit his pipe, leaving a conglomeration of 
dishes and cooking utensils for Laury to clean up. He 
smoked for a while in deep silence, then, knocking the 
ashes from his pipe, he took the lamp and carried it to 
a small desk in an adjoining room. He walked stealth- 
ily, and when he had set the lamp down, he paused 
and listened as if he feared he might not be alone. The 
cold winter wind blew around the corners of his little 
cottage, and entering at some unnoticed crack, caused 
the lamp to smoke until through its blackened chimney 
only light enough struggled to render the room ghostly. 
Holding the lamp in his hand, Bob raised the lid of the 
desk and drew forth a paper. 

'‘All safe, are ye?” he muttered. “Good enough ! 
I ’ll have use fur ye one o’ these days. If I never used 
ye agin, yer hev done me benerfit enough a-showin’ 
me the rascalerty of Jim Sarcott. Anvils an’ pokers! 
I wish I could show as good a evidence that my mortgige 
was paid. However this paper come ter be lyin’ around 
loose are a mystery ter me, but I ’m glad of it — yes, 
sir-ee. ” He perused the paper for fully half an hour 
with unabated interest, and when he put it back care- 
fully he drew a long breath and said : 


i 82 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“One o’ these days I ’ll let this out ter Laury, but 
not yit. It are good she hain’t happened to find it 
out.” 

For a long time after replacing the paper, Bob stood 
leaning on the desk. The light of the smoky lamp fell 
upon his face, now brightening it up, now letting it fall 
into shadow, according as the wind creeping into, the 
room played fitfully with the flame. These changes 
were but the outward signs of a commotion within. 
As the internal forces of the earth often manifest them- 
selves in wave-like motion along its surface, so the light 
and shadow that moved in waves over Bob’s face might 
have had their origin in the forces that were playing 
within. 

“I will be free from his clutches,” was his sudden 
ejaculation as he picked up the lamp. “There are more 
good ter be had out o’ his say so than in it.” 

From this time on Bob was a changed man. His 
attitude, as we have seen, was so changed toward the 
Conways that it provoked their surprise. Time and 
again during the summer, when Bob was alone in his 
cottage, and especially after some interview with Mr. 
Sarcott, he would steal to the desk and spend a long 
time perusing the paper. It seemed to strengthen his 
resolution. 

By flattering Mr. Dill, Bob had learned from time 
to time the true financial standing of various parties in 
Rising Branch. The hollowness of all its apparent 
prosperity was a matter of note with him. From the 
same source he also learned that the Conway family 
had contracted a large bill at the store. He had been, 
too, a close observer of Mr. Sarcott’s attentions to the 
widow, and when that gentleman had broached the 


THE TRIAL. 


183 


matter of Jake’s flight to him, he was not slow to read 
his whole scheme. Now partly to gain favor with the 
people of Craggy Hill, several of whom, including 
Uncle Joe, had made it a point to be kind to him, and 
partly for the satisfaction that an inferior man has in 
triumphing over a superior one. Bob had concocted his 
counter scheme. 

Eighteen miles from Carterville Bob had a brother, 
a well-to-do farmer. To him the smith had paid a fly- 
ing visit in the spring, and had arranged for Jake to 
work for him during the summer. 

“Mindyer, Bill,” said he, after he had explained 
the situation, “keep the lad as shady as yer kin. 
Therms no one here thet knows him, and don’t yer 
furgit thet his name are Sam Pounds.” 

The brother assented to all this, and into the family 
of Tobe Loomis the new hand, Sam Pounds, was duly 
installed. Communication was kept up with his family 
through Bob. Mr. Sarcott had been told where Jake was, 
but, relying on Bob’s fidelity, he had no expectation 
of his return until such time as he should dictate. 

Immediately after making the outrageous arrange- 
ments narrated in the preceding chapter, Mr. Sarcott 
sought for Bob, but that worthy was well out of his way. 

“There is nothing for it but the trial,” said the 
magnate, choking down his wrath ; “ but we ’ll see who 
comes out ahead. I have never been crossed, and ” 
(here he uttered an oath) “I never will.” 

Hanaford was full of people. It was the county seat 
and court was in session. The day of Jake’s trial came 
on, and Rising Branch was fully represented. 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


184 

Uncle Joe, pale from his recent sickness, entered 
the court-room, and was scowled at savagely by Mr. 
Sarcott. The Italians were present, the dark form of 
Adolfo among them. 

With his usual smoothness of face, Mr. Sarcott had 
gone to Mrs. Conway after her arrival in Hanaford : 
‘*Itis a little unfortunate, Amelia, that the boy has 
returned, but now that he is here, I will attend to secur- 
ing additional counsel.” 

“That is provided for, James, thank you,” replied 
the widow. 

“ By whom ?” 

“Uncle Joe. ” 

And Mr. Sarcott became more hostile to Uncle Joe 
than ever before. 

“ O yes! O yes !” cried the sheriff, “ I now declare 

the Court of Common Pleas for the county of N 

to be duly convened.” 

The case of the State of F , against Jacob 

Conway was called, and the defendant appeared. 

He came into court accompanied by his mother and 
Eurilda, and took a seat by his counsel. 

“ He are as guilty as a dog,” rem.arked David, who 
was eyeing him from a seat in the farthest corner. 

“Of course he is,” replied the party addressed; 
“you can see that by his face. ’Tell you what, I can 
read a pris’ner at sight. I have been to twenty trials 
in this old court house, and I never failed to spot my 
man yet. You remember that case of old Hen .” 

“Silence in this court-room,” roared the sheriff, and 
the buzzing came suddenly to an end. 

The forenoon was spent in securing a jury, and the 
day had well advanced before the trial properly began. 


THE TRIAL. 


185 


** Not guilty !” 

The prisoner returned his answer in a clear, manly 
voice. The clerk took his seat. 

“ He ’ll sing another song in three days,” whispered 
David to his neighbor. 

“Silence in this court-room,” roared the sheriff 
again, and David subsided. 

“Persons present outside the bar,” remarked the 
judge, “must either be quiet or retire.” 

The State opened its case, and examined three wit- 
nesses before adjournment. They were Jeff Stormer 
and two of the Italians. 

David was the first witness on the following morn- 
ing, and testified to the facts already known to the 
reader. 

Mr. Dill testified as he had been directed to by Mr. 
Sarcott. He trembled exceedingly when put upon the 
stand, and in his cross-examination became thoroughly 
mixed up. 

“The fool!” thought Mr. Sarcott, “his want of 
sand makes his testimony not worth the cost of a sum- 
mons.” 

With the positive testimony of these few witnesses 
the prosecution rested the case. Few people in the 
court-room felt that the prisoner was innocent. 

“ He’ll get ten years,” said one. 

“Hardly,” said another. “ He 's so young the judge 
will put it on light.” 

The defense occupied much of the time examining 
witnesses to prove the defendant’s good character. 
Mr. Sarcott, who had managed to get himself sum- 
moned for this very purpose, testified to the point. 

“ Can ’t clear the chap on that character business,” 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


1 86 

remarked the philosophic man before alluded to ; “ you 
can get any amount of men to swear to a man’s char- 
acter; the testimony of them Italians and the hostler 
will do it up for the boy. He ’s good for the peUy as 
sure ’s you ’re born. ” 

“We have but three more witnesses,” was the an- 
nouncement of the defense, as the afternoon session of 
the third day opened. 

“ Miss Jennie Sarcott.” 

Mr. Sarcott, who had been sitting inside the bar 
close to the window, started to his feet. Did his eyes 
deceive him ? No, there was his daughter on the stand, 
and his astonishment prevented his uttering a sound 
before her examination began. 

“ Your age. Miss Sarcott ?” 

“Seventeen years old.” 

“Were you at home on the night of the — th of 
last February?” 

Jennie grew red as she glanced at her father, and 
cast her eyes to the floor. 

“No, sir.” 

“State were you were.” 

The girl hesitated, and with eyes still fixed on the 
floor, replied: 

“I was at a ball in Hanaford.” 

“ How did you go there ?” 

“ In a sleigh.” 

“ Did you return in a sleigh?” 

“I did.” 

“Now, Miss Sarcott, state what occurred on your 
way home ?” 

Jennie gave an account of the collision. 

“ Do you know with whom your sleigh collided?” 


THE TRIAL. 


187 


‘a do.” 

‘‘ Now, what time did you reach Rising Branch?” 

‘‘About four o’clock.” 

“ Who was with you ?” 

“I object!” said the prosecution. 

The Judge sustained the objection, and the defense 
resumed. 

“Now, Miss Sarcott, tell this court plainly what 
you saw in the village as you passed the boarding- 
house?” 

There was some noise in the court-room. It was 
caused by the Italians, who were eagerly straining for- 
ward to catch the words of the witness. Adolfo, es- 
pecially, was a study for a picture. 

“Silence!” shouted the sheriff. Instantly an op- 
pressive silence pervaded the room. 

‘ ‘ I saw two men pass to the back of the boarding- 
house, carrying a small oil-can.” 

“ Did you know the men ?” 

“ I did ; it was bright moonlight.” 

“ Are they in this court-room ?” 

“They are.” 

Here the Italians were commanded to stand up, 
and Jennie pointed out Adolfo and another one. 

Adolfo was dazed ; but in an instant a black look 
crossed his face, and he turned toward the door. 

“Are these witnesses in charge of the sheriff?” 
asked the defense. 

“The sheriff will see that they are,” said the 
judge. 

A hum pervaded the room as the sheriff ordered 
the Italians inside the bar. 

Jennie cast a terrified look at them as she left the 


i88 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


stand. It was returned by Adolfo. His black eyes 
pierced her like an arrow. 

“The next witness.” 

“Miss Mary Somers !” 

If Mr. Sarcott was astonished before, no words can 
picture his amazement now. Only the dignity of his 
surroundings prevented his expressing his feelings. 
When had the defense summoned this witness, and 
why? 

“Your age. Miss Somers?” 

“Thirty-six,” answered Mary, while her keen black 
eyes shot forth their glances into every part of the 
room. A sort of triumphant smile stole over her face, 
and her lips twitched as she singled out Mr. Sarcott 
and riveted her gaze on him. Adolfo watched her 
eagerly. 

“Do you keep house for Mr. Sarcott, of Rising 
Branch ?” 

“I do.”. 

“What was your occupation before you went to 
live at his home ?” 

“I was a governess.” 

“ Have you ever traveled abroad?’^ 

“I have.” 

‘ ‘ Please state to this Court where you have 
traveled?” 

“On the Continent of Europe, especially in Italy.” 

“ How long were you in Italy?” 

“Seven years. I attended school there.” 

“Do you speak Italian?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Now, Miss Somers” (here the counsel for defense 
arose and leaned forward, while perfect silence reigned 


THE TRIAL. 1 89 

in the house) “were you in Mr. Dill’s store early in 
the night of the th of February, after the fire?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Were any of these men ” (pointing to the Italians) 
“ in there ?’■ 

“They were in the bar-room of the store, and I saw 
them; they were all there but one.” 

“Which one ?” 

Mary pointed out Henri, the one whom Mike had 
hurt. 

“ Did you hear them talk?” 

“ I did, plainly.” 

“Did you understand them?” 

“ Very easily. ” 

“State, Miss Somers, which one you heard speak 
the most distinctly.” 

“That fall one, Adolfo they call him, I believe.” 

“What did he say?” 

The ticking of the court-room clock was painfully 
loud. Adolfo’s fingers twitched nervously. His com- 
panions cast glances, now at him, now at the witness. 
They were aware, evidently, that something unusual 
was going on, but did not fully comprehend it. 

“ He said,” answered Mary, speaking slowly, “ ^ We 
are all right, boys; the old man’s hostler saw Jake 
out, too, and we can easily get it on him. I will tell 
the old man that Carlo and Pietro saw Jake set the fire, 
and Dave will help us out.’ ” 

“You heard this language distinctly?” 

“ I did,” replied Mary, emphatically. 

“May it please the Court,” said Jake’s counsel, 

‘ ‘ we have an Italian interpreter present, and are pre- 


190 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


pared to verify this statement of this witness as to her 
ability to speak the Italian tongue.” 

A tall man with a dark moustache came upon the 
stand, and began a conversation with Mary. 

He turned to the Judge in a few moments and 
said : 

“Sir Judge, she speak the Italian very excellent. 
Much better as I speak the English.” 

“Silence!” demanded the sheriff, as Mary retired, 
and an unusual disturbance began near where David sat. 

“Curse her!” said Mr. Sarcott, mentally, “she 
has been a demon ever since she came to me. I knew 
she spoke several languages, but who would have 
dreamed this ?” 

The last witness was Uncle Joe Sales. He came 
upon the stand with a feeble tread, and bore Mr. Sar- 
cott’s scowl without a change on his face. 

“Mr. Sales,” asked the defense, “were you away 
from home at any time on the morning of the — th of 
last February ?” 

“I war.” 

“Where were you ?” 

“Drivin’ on the road from my house ter Dr. 
Peters’. ” 

“State what happened on the road?” 

Uncle Joe gave an account of the collision. 

“ About what time was this?” 

“’Bout three o’clock in the mornin’, as near as I 
could jedge.” 

“ Now Mr. Sales, after the collision did you pick 
up any thing in the snow?” 

“ I picked up a pockit-book, and a paper thet had 
fell out of it.” 


THE TRIAL. 


191 


‘^Are these the ones?” (holding up a crumpled 
paper and a large red pocket-book.) 

*‘Thet looks like the pockit-book, and I kin tell the 
paper if I kin read it.” 

The lawyer handed him the paper. 

“That is it,” said the old man, as he adjusted his 
glasses. 

“ May it please the Court,” said the lawyer, “the 
reading of this paper is highly essential to this de- 
fense.” 

“ Proceed,” said the Judge. 

The lawyer smoothed out the paper, and read as 
follows : 

‘ ‘ Dear Dave : — The scalawags will do it. They want to get even on 
Mike anyhow. Hope he will get out, though. I saw 'Dolf the other day, 
and they are all in for it. I know the boss keeps Jeff supplied with a good lot 
of tin. You can get it while the muss is going on, and Pll be on hand in the 
morning. I am going to trot Pen to a dance that night, and will bring her 
back. Tell the scamps not to light up till after they see us come home. 

“ WT 

The sensation that this note occasioned was equaled 
only by the remainder of Uncle Joe’s testimony. 

“Mr. Sales, did the pocket-book you found have 
any marks upon it, whereby its owner might be identi- 
fied?” 

“His name are stamped on the inside kiver,” re- 
plied the old man. 

The lawyer opened the book, and holding it up to 
the jury, showed them the name of Will Timmons. 

The interest in the remainder of the trial centered 
mainly in the argument for the defense, and especially 
in the concluding sentence : 

“And now, gentlemen of the jury, I will be glad 


192 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


enough to show up this conspiracy when those guilty 
foreigners are tried.” 

The jury returned a verdict of not guilty” with- 
out leaving their seats, and in the fullness of her joy, 
Eurilda embraced Jake again and again. Mrs. Conway 
wept for gladness. As they passed out, led by Bob 
Loomis, a noise in the Grand Jury room attracted their 
attention. A young lady had swooned, and been car- 
ried thither. It was Jennie Sarcott. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

UNCLE joe’s sacrifice. 

It would be hard to tell whether Uncle Joe was 
more elated at the result of Jake’s trial than disap- 
pointed at the action of Craggy Hill church. He had 
not heard of the j'ust punishment of Elder Tribbey’s 
meanness. That worthy remained out of the old man’s 
company, a thing that the exciting events narrated in 
the last chapter enabled him to do very easily. Intense 
anger at Mr. Sarcott and chagrin at the outcome of his 
own scheming had well nigh made him ill. He’ was in 
a troublesome dilemma. He wished earnestly to take 
revenge on the man who had deceived him, by throw- 
ing his influence in favor of building at the village, but 
if he did this he feared that his own selfishness would 
be too fully revealed. His desire to prevent this over- 
came his longing for revenge, and he resolved to abide 
in the course he had taken. A sick child in the home 
of Mr. Sarcott was not the only new trouble that fol- 
lowed that gentleman after the trial. As might have 
been expected, David the hostler was suddenly missing. 
The alacrity with which he disappeared from Rising 


193 


194 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Branch was equaled only by a similar movement on the 
part of young Timmons. An investigation showed the 
extent of the conspiracy that led to the burning of the 
boarding-house. The young man’s intimacy with the 
Italians had grown out of a number of meetings at 
David’s room in Mr. Sarcott’s barn, where night after 
night they had all met to indulge in cards. In an evil 
hour, lack of funds, and a brain fired with drink, had 
prompted young Timmons to broach the scheme to 
David. Its result the reader knows. 

Mary had gone back to Mr. Sarcott’s fully expect- 
ing that his wrath would be speedily visited upon her. 
Her surprise was very great when, after giving a few 
directions relative to Jennie, he said in a quiet way: 

‘^Well Mary, I am glad you did Jake a good turn. 

I was really afraid the boy would be convicted in spite 
of his innocence. It’s a good thing to be educated, 
Mary. Ha, ha ! it did me good to see the astonishment 
of those Italians.” 

Knowing the duplicity of her employer, and that 
his present outward demeanor .was purposely assumed, 
Mary was about to return a cutting reply, but Mr. Sar- 
cott, anticipating it, no doubt, turned immediately and 
left the room. 

Mary stood watching the closed door a moment, 
then muttered: Go, you serpent, but don’t deceive 

yourself into thinking that I can not read you. You 
are beaten at this point, but I know you too well not 
to know that even now you are planning to turn your 
defeat to victory. And you will be thwarted again. 
I know it — yes, I know it!” 

Nothing unusual marked the long and severe winter 
that now followed, unless indeed that the reputation of 


UNCLE JOE'S SACRIFICE. 


195 


Rising Branch for godlessness became more pronounced. 
Three saloons did a flourishing business. The dancing 
hall was crowded two nights every week, and while 
the nights were longest these gatherings were supple- 
mented by travelling theatrical and opera troupes. 
Jennie Sarcott slowly recovered from a severe illness, 
but it was remarked that she was seldom seen away 
from her father’s house. 

The work on the railroad progressed slowly, but 
with the opening of spring it was renewed with great 
vigor. 

The canopy of winter’s brightest days is cold and 
cheerless ; of its darkest, leaden and funereal. It is a 
relief to glide from under these into the genial airs of 
spring. Yet I would not be without the winter. In its 
very desolation lie the possibilities of returning glad- 
ness, and the soul needs for a season its chilliness in 
order to respond to the touch of a warmer breath. 

Never had Uncle Joe hailed the advent of spring 
with greater delight. He had been so confined at home 
during the winter by rheumatism, that even the Conway 
cottage sadly missed his presence. 

reckin, Samantha, the warm weather are come 
to stay,” said the old man as he hobbled out upon the 
wide porch about the middle of May. I declare,” he 
added, as his eyes ranged over a succession of plowed 
fields, “if corn plantin’ aren’t here agin.” 

Aunt Samantha placed his chair where he could see 
the movements of his hired man, who, in a field close 
by, was engaged with two lads planting corn. Over- 
head wheeled a robber crow, waiting a chance to drop 
to the ground and scratch up the precious kernels. 
Christ’s parable of the sower and the seed occurred to 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


196 

Uncle Joe, and he watched with renewed interest the 
gyrations of the bird. 

*‘That ar crow,” said the old man to his wife, “are 
not goin’ partikerlarly fur the seed by the wayside; he 
are tryin’ ter dig it out o’ the good soil.” 

‘ ‘ Ain’t thet what the devil are always tryin’ ter do ?” 
answered Aunt Samantha. “Yer would hev realized 
it more, Joseph, if yer hed been able ter git about this 
winter.” 

“Why?” queried Uncle Joe. 

“ I would hev told ye before, Joseph, if yer had not 
been so poorly. Who hez labored harder than ye ter 
plant the good seed in the hearts of yer Bible class at 
Craggy Hill ? And yet it pains me ter tell ye thet the 
paint an’ tinsel of the village has lured four or five of 
’em away.” 

The old man looked the astonishment that Aunt 
Samantha did not give him time to utter. 

“Yes, Joseph,” continued she, “the saloons up 
ther’ an’ thet dancin’ hall have enticed Jimmy Tone, 
Susie Bonham, and Bessie Coleman out of the true path. 
The gals hez gone jest crazy over dancin’, an’ Jimmie, 
they say, hez been seen drinkin’ more then once.” 

Uncle Joe could only groan. 

“I know I hev wrenched yer heart, Joseph, and 
furgive me fur the pain, but the time hez come fur ye 
ter know it.” 

“O Samantha,” groaned the old man, “say that it 
are any ones but them. If ever I war sure on any- 
thing, it war that those children was safe. IJevn’t 
they hed pious parents ? Hev n’t I give them the best 
days I hed ?” 

He was going on in this strain when Aunt Samantha 


UNCLE joe’s sacrifice. 


197 


interrupted him. “It are just ez I say,” she con- 
tinued, “the devil works hard at the seed in good soil. 
Harder p’r’aps because he only has ter pick light at 
thet by the wayside If it war Seth Mingo or Jinsie 
Cummins I would n’t have wondered. They war never 
half convertid, anyhow.” 

The old man shook his head mournfully. The 
brightness of spring seemed suddenly to have lost all 
attraction for him. 

“ I must go ter the village, Samantha, jest as soon as 
I’m able ter ride,” he remarked, presently. 

“I am hopin’ that may be soon, Joseph,” was the 
reply, “but I ’m afeard such news won’t further ye far 
on the’ path of healin’.” 

“Such news,” rejoined Uncle Joe, “demands me 
ter be gittin’ about.” 

Indeed Aunt Samantha’s revelation seemed to put 
some strength into the old man’s limbs, for he arose with 
an agility that surprised her, and went into the house, 
his face wearing a look of determination. 

A few days more of warm, sunshiny weather brought 
Uncle Joe out of the house. 

His first visit was to the village. Thither he rode, 
mounted, as we first saw him, on the old horse, and 
jogging along apparently lost in thought. All about 
him was a sea of green, overarched with a blue so soft, 
so peaceful, that the old man’s troubled spirit grew quiet 
as he went. He passed the old meeting-house at Craggy 
Hill ; the woods around it were full of the song of 
birds ; once more the graves were carpeted, and at the 
base of the headstones lingered a few violets. The 
creeping myrtle had half hidden the low footstones, and 
out of its tangle sprang the sweet-william and the pink. 


198 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Uncle Joe paused a moment, and raised his eyes. 
‘*Yes,*’ said he to himself, “I love the dead, and I 
might agree ter this and worship fer these last few days 
of my life here in this spot ; but who is it that is callin’ 
us ? Certainly not the silent tongues thet are restin’ 
here, but the livin’— yes, the livin’ ; them as are in the 
thickest of the fight, and in the power of the tempter. 

The old man soon rode on, and in due time reached 
Rising Branch. It is not our purpose to follow him 
into the Conway cottage, and in his walk around the 
village. What took place there the reader can learn 
from what follows. 

It are unusual late fur Joseph,” said Aunt Saman- 
tha, as she watched the last ray of the sun fade from 
the tree tops. Her uneasiness increased as the twilight 
faded into dusk. A few stars had become visible be- 
fore a well known “ whoa ! ” in the direction of the barn 
announced the delinquent’s arrival. It was evident to 
Aunt Samantha that Uncle Joe was a little excited, for 
he laid his hat on the tea table, and drawing off his shoe 
he put a slipper on one foot only. 

“ I are not hungry, Samantha,” said he, as his wife 
pressed him to a seat. ‘‘ Hurry and git the tea things 
off, fur I have somethin’ ter tell ye.” 

The good old woman soon had the table cleared, 
while all the time she was wondering what new thing 
had now taken the attention of her aged spouse. 

“What do ye think, Samantha?’^ said he, abruptly, 
before she was quite through. “There were preachin’ 
in Risin’ Branch ter-day.” 

“Preachin’ ! ” 

“Yes, preachin’, and a sarmon that is Scripter if ever 
there war any Scripter.” 


UNCLE joe's sacrifice. 


199 


‘‘Why, Joseph, I don’t know what yer mean. 
Preachin’ in Risin’ Branch? Preachin’ on a Tuesday? 
Who hez bin preachin’, and where, fer pity sake? ” 

“I do n ’t wonder yer astonished, Samantha, but I 
hev been ter preachin’ this day, and thet in Risin’ 
Branch village. Now be quiet while I tell ye. When 
I come inter the village I seed a big crowd standin’ not 
fur from Dill’s store. I hunched my way in, and sure’s 
yer live ther was a stranger standin’ onter a store box 
and preachin’. He war a middle-aged man, dressed 
middlin’ well in a black suit. I hed a long talk with 
him arter the sarmon, and found that his name war 
James Tarford, and he war what he called a evangelist. 
Some of the crowd said he belonged ter the Camerlites, 
but he did n ’t own no sich name, and said he believed 
in the one church on airth, and that was the Church 
of Christ. What hez been movin’ me is thet he 
preached jist what you and me hez been thinkin’ this 
many a year was the teachin’ of the Bible. He ex- 
plained how a sinner could come ter Christ, and O, Sa- 
mantha, if yer could hev heard him ! It ’s jest as plain, 
and jest as you and me hev thought ourselves from 
readin’ the Scripter’. I certainly hev seen the thing 
this way for many a long year, but as I hed so little ed- 
dication I thought sometimes I might be wrong, and so 
hev sot patient listenin’ ter Elder Gaines. The more 
he hez preached the more I hev bin muddled up, but 
this man hez made it all plain ter me. He showed how 
Christ sot talkin’ with his Apostles jest before his death ; 
how he promised them the Holy Sperrit ; how he died, 
was raised, and ascended, and then how the Sperrit come 
down onter them Apostles on the day of Pentercost, 
and how Peter, speakin’ under its influence, preached ter 


200 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the multitude at Jerusalem. He showed jest what 
Peter told them ter do in order ter be brought inter the 
kingdom, and then wound up by showin’ how we must 
go back ter these Apostles and ter no one else in order 
ter find the way there ourselves. In his talk with me 
he explained more than I could tell yer before midnight, 
and what is astonishin’ ter me is thet it ’s jest what I hev 
thought the Scripter did teach. Especially, Samantha, 
he showed me one thing thet has been botherin’ me, 
and cleared it all up. I hev wondered, so hev you, 
why we hev been prayin’ nearly every winter here at 
the meeting house fur the Sperrit ter come down and 
convert us. Some hev said they felt it come, and war 
so happy, but I confess I never did. Jest listen a min. 
nit.” Here Uncle Joe proceeded slowly, and empha- 
sized all his points. “Christ promised ter send the 
Sperrit ter his Apostles ; now Samantha jest you read 
the sixteenth varse of the fourteenth of John, and the 
seventh varse of the sixteenth chapter.” 

Aunt Samantha read them. 

“Now Christ went away, as ye kin see by readin’ 
the last chapters of the first three gospels. Now when 
was that promise fulfilled, Samantha? Jest read the 
second of Acts.” 

Aunt Samantha read the entire chapter. Uncle Joe 
listening attentively. 

“Nowit’s plain,” he continued, “thet Peter was 
speakin’ by the power of the Sperrit.” Aunt Saman- 
tha nodded. “And he would n ’t tell a lie ? ” added the 
old man. The old lady shook her head. 

“Now,” resumed Uncle Joe, “ the chapter tells us 
that Peter was a preachin’ ter a mixed crowd, and was 
preachin’ about Christ. Them people heard him.” 


UNCLE joe’s sacrifice. 


201 


* * Sartainly, ” answered his wife, ‘ ‘ fur they axed what 
they had ter do. Here it are in the thirty-seventh 
verse, ‘ Men and brethring, what shell we do ?’” 

Eggsactly, ” said Uncle Joe, “ and what did Peter 
tell them? Jest read the thirty-eighth varse.” The 
old lady read it. 

“ That ’s it, now,” went on Uncle Joe; they heard, 
they believed, and Peter told them what ter do. Now 
it seems ter me, when I know what the inspired word 
tells me ter do, and know if I do that or not, thet I 
I have evidence enough that God will keep his promises. 
But, Samantha, ther ’s more than this I want ter tell ye, 
and it ’s a thing that ’s commin’ so suddin upon ye that 
maybe ye orter sleep before ye are prepared ter hear 
it.” 

No doubt Uncle Joe was sincere, but he could have 
taken no better way to prevent his wife from following 
out his suggestion than to make this last remark. 

‘‘Speak it out, Joseph,” said the old lady, with a 
calmness that surprised her husband. 

“This man is tryin’ ter organize a church in the 
village. Why should we not leave the brethring here, 
seein’ they are determined ter do nothin’ fur the salva- 
tion of Risin’ Branch, and give our aid ter this move- 
ment ?” 

Aunt Samantha raised both her hands, and her face 
took on a look of horror. 

“ What! Joseph Sales, make a skism in the church? 
Split the church into two fackshuns? Are ye gone 
wild, Joseph? Hez yer sickniss affected ye, or what?” 

“ I am as sane as I ever war,” answered Uncle Joe. 
“Now, Samantha, jest git calm and listen. Ye know 
the late action regardin’ the new meetin’-house. Ye 


20 ; 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


know, too, sorry as I am ter say it, thet personal con- 
siderations hez hed much ter do with thet decision. 
Now, when a people refuse ter pitch ther tent where 
they can serve God best, and when, added ter thet, 
they don’t teach the Scripter as it orter be taught, 
aren’t we in duty bound ter leave them ter them- 
selves?” 

“Who would yer have in yer new church, Joseph ?” 

“Very few, I know, ter begin with. The widder 
Conway’s family, us, and, I think, from what Wes 
Kibler told me, some might be expectid from there. 
He war at the village and heard Elder Tarford.” 

“ And how would ye git yer house ?” asked Aunt 
Samantha. 

“ Ah !” answer Uncle Joe, “ now ye hev reached a 
question. If ye thought I war crazy a minnit ago, 
what will ye think now?” 

Aunt Samantha eyed him curiously. 

“Samantha,” said the old man solemnly, as he 
arose and stood before her chair. “Very few in this big 
world hev seen fit ter sacrifice fur its good. And yit I 
read somewhere in a book thet the progress of human- 
ity hez forever laid along the path of sacrifice. A few 
noble sperrits hev been willin’ ter give up some of the 
blessin’s of this world so thet the world might hev 
more. Samantha, we are gettin’ old. We will not need 
much in our old age, and, as we draw nearer ter heavin, 
mebbe it won’t be so hard fur us ter lay down some of 
the airth.” 

“What! Joseph, yer don’t mean — ?” 

“Yes, Samantha, we kin sell our old home; a little 
house in the village will do us. With part of the money 
I kin well nigh build a little meetin’-house, and with 


UNCLE joe’s sacrifice. 203 

what are left we will try ter git along till we are called 
ter a home above.” 

The shadow of pain on the face of the aged wife 
seemed for a moment to deepen. Her knees trembled, 
and she tried to speak. There was a long, deep silence, 
in the midst of which the ancient clock slowly struck 
the hour of ten. The echo of each stroke lingered in 
the room like a prolonged sigh. Then the shadow 
lifted — the storm had passed, and, as Uncle Joe looked 
in her face, he knew that she had caught a measure of 
his own inspiration. 

‘^Joseph,” said she, firmly, “ I hev never been be- 
hind ye in a good work, and I do n’t want ter be now. 
If I am convinced that it are my duty, I am ready ter 
make the sacrifice ; and one thought is sufficient for 
me — Christ died for us.” 

The old man did not lift his eyes ; his lips were 
murmuring a prayer. Aunt Samantha drew him gently 
to the side of the chair, and they both knelt. It was a 
beautiful sight to see this aged couple beseeching God 
to help them lay this unusual offering upon His altar. 

They arose calmly, and Aunt Samantha asked : 

*^But, Joseph, wher kin yer git a spot ter put a 
house on?” 

It might seem ter ye a hard thing ter git such a 
spot in the village, Samantha; and so it would, ex- 
ceptin’ it were fur the widder Conway. Thet small lot 
jest beyond her house is all thet she owns free of mort- 
gige ; but thet is free, and she is glad ter sell it, especially 
fur such a purpose. I hev seed her. ” 

The lengthening of the summer days did not weaken 
Uncle Joe’s resolution, and a visit from Elder Tarford 
only made him more anxious to carry it out. Still the 


204 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


old couple suffered some keen pangs, especially when 
a man from Cartersville offered to buy the old home. 
The farm had come to Uncle Joe from his father. He 
himself had been born upon it, and as he realized that 
he was really going to part with a spot that had hallowed 
his childhood, he both wept and prayed. 

In the meantime the news of his strange resolution 
went abroad. It stirred the congregation at Craggy 
Hill in a powerful manner. 

“ Humph,” said Elder Tribbey, '‘have n’t I always 
said that the old fool wanted to glorify himself? — but 
this is a freak that I never expected.” 

Mr. Sarcott heard the news with a sardonic grin. 
“I will soon trip that up,” was his remark. 

“I would indeed. You have made such a success 
of tripping lately.” 

Mr. Sarcott was alone in his library. “ Pooh,” said 
he, “I am getting used to that fool Mary. I don’t 
mind her chatter any more.^’ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 

Again we must go back with the reader to bring 
forward the history of the Conway family parallel with 
that of Uncle Joe. The result of Jake’s trial was any- 
thing but satisfactory to Mr. Sarcott. He was very 
angry at Bob Loomis, and very much troubled at Jen- 
nie’s escapade with young Timmons. No one, how- 
ever, would have suspected that he was otherwise than 
highly pleased at Jake’s acquittal. He entered the store 
a few nights thereafter, where the usual mixture of idlers 
had assembled. The principal theme was the result of 
the trial. 

“Now, boys,” said he, after listening a moment to 
the various opinions expressed, “it’s just as I always 
knew it would be, and I want to hear no more of your 
nonsense. The boy was perfectly innocent, and the 
Italians have proved themselves to be the scamps their 
national reputation gives them. It might have gone 
hard with the boy, though, if I had n’t helped him 
out.” 

There was hardly one present who did not know 


305 


206 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


the utter falsity of this last statement, yet not one ven- 
tured to gainsay it. Mr. Sarcott was king of Rising 
Branch. The utter obsequiousness to which he had 
reduced his subjects manifested itself in the instant 
change of opinion that followed his remark. 

“ I allers thought the boy war innocent,” said Bose 
Compton, “ and when I heered the opinyun of the boss 
here, thet settled me. Jest as good as if the joory hed 
sed it, says I.” 

“I knew,” said another, “if the boss helped the 
boy he war as good as free.” 

“ When the boss throws out his opinyun,” added a 
third, “it are as good as wheat. He said this was the 
place fur the railroad, and here it are.” 

Mr. Sarcott affected not to pay any attention to this 
miserable servility. He walked toward the back of the 
room and appeared to be in conversation with Mr. Dill. 
When he had left the store entirely, old Bose blew a 
cloud of smoke from his pipe and remarked in an un- 
dertone : “Wonder if the old man wouldn’t like the 
boy fur a step-son? he, he, he!” A general laugh fol- 
lowed, in the midst of which the form of Bob Loomis 
appeared standing near the counter and encircled in a 
wreath of smoke. Where he came from nobody knew, 
for no one had seen him enter. 

“Hallo!” exclaimed Bose in surprise, “Where did 
you come from ?” 

“ No matter where frum,” answered Bob, “only so 
I heered that last remark.” 

“Well, what of it?” asked Bose. 

“Jake Conway will never be step-son to no one, 
least of all to Jim Sarcott.” 

“ Humph, everybody knows that the old man has an 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 20/ 

eye on the widder. What do you know about it, any- 
how?” 

“ Mebbe I don’t know nothin’,” replied Bob, ‘‘and 
mebbe I do.” 

Bose questioned him no further, and Bob smoked 
on in silence till the company began to break up. 

These gatherings at the store, at Jeff Stormer’s 
saloon, and at the tavern, became more common as 
winter approached. With stormy days and long nights, 
facilities for loafing were greatly increased. Mr. Sar- 
cott was not often seen abroad. Stormy weather often 
prevented work on the railway, and Jennie’s sickness 
had been to him a great source of anxiety. It was ob- 
served, however, that no night passed that a bright 
light did not burn late and long in the window of Mr. 
Sarcott’s library. 

The cheerless aspect of winter wrought strangely 
on the mind of Jake Conway. To Eurilda and her 
mother the darkest days were brightened by the 
thought of his innocence of a serious charge. Glad of 
the good fortune of his acquittal, they saw nothing but 
the sun behind the clouds. But with Jake it was dif- 
ferent. Glad indeed he was to be cleared of the charge 
against him, but a sense of humiliation to think he had 
been led by his own carelessness into the difficulty op- 
pressed him. He found himself more than ever adverse 
to following his former plan of becoming a preacher. 
Visions of earthly prosperity still haunted him. He 
saw clearly through the duplicity of Mr. Sarcott, but 
the seed of discontent had been sown, and the boy was 
unhappy. He knew, too, that the mortgage hanging 
over his mother’s home was due in the spring, that 
much of her money, notwithstanding outside help, had 


208 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


been spent for him ; and these things strengthened the 
resolution that he made one night as he crept up to his 
garrett bed: ‘‘I must get into something that will 
make me money. Mother and Eurilda will surely give 
up this preaching notion when they think how bad off 
our money affairs are.” 

This thought Jake expressed next morning at the 
breakfast table. Mrs. Conway looked troubled, and 
Eurilda’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Oh, what is the use of clinging to this idea for^ 
ever?” said Jake, pettishly “ I must get at something 
that there ’s money in. Even if I should want to 
preach, I would be hampered now, for some people will 
always think I made that fire. It seems to me, mother, 
if there 's anything in this question of God’s providence 
it must be that he has allowed these things to happen 
so as to turn me away from preaching.” 

Mrs. Conway made no reply to this argument. She 
knew too well that the source of the boy’s discontent, 
and especially his aversion to becoming a preacher, was 
in the associations to which her want of faith had re- 
cently exposed him. Eurilda, however, spoke : 

“ But listen, Jake, to my plan. Let us not say any- 
thing about the preaching for a while. Let us see if 
my plan for getting out of the mortgage trouble will 
not work. Mrs. Cool, at Hanaford, has advertised for 
a girl. She is a good Christian woman, and I have 
made up my mind to take the place. She will pay me 
three dollars a week. Here is a letter, too, from Mr. 
Wale, who says he will pay fifteen dollars a month to a 
few hands in his woolen mill, and he offers you a place. 
Now, I will go to Mr. Sarcott and tell him that we can 
pay part of the mortgage in the spring, and ask him to 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 20g 

renew the balance for awhile. I believe he will. Now, 
what do you think of that 

“What! you work out?” said Jake. “Why, 
Eurilda Conway, you were never gone from home a 
week in your life.” 

“I, know it,” answered the brave girl; “but I can 
go. Mrs. Cool is a good woman, and mother can trust 
me there.” 

“ But what will mother do ?” asked Jake. 

“ I can stay here alone. There is no horse nor cow 
to take care of, and you can come home Saturday 
nights. Eurilda has thought and prayed over this plan 
more than I, and, my son, perhaps we will do well to 
yield to her judgment. ” 

This willingness of Mrs. Conway to let others form 
her judgment, and to lay domestic care upon any one 
who would bear it, was her great weakness. Yet it had 
sprung naturally from the treatment of her husband, 
for Simon Conway in his lifetime had never fretted 
her with responsibilities. Fervent as his love was, it 
was ever mistaken in carrying alone burdens that should 
have been divided with his wife. 

Love is always overreaching prudence, and young 
wives will suffer it to be thus, forgetting that a husband 
whose kindness will not let them know a care, is but 
casting them as compassless, rudderless ships on the 
possible sea of widowhood and want. 

It was well for Mrs Conway that Eurilda had been 
spared to her. Jake did not consent at once to this 
plan. The truth was, he was a little ashamed that 
Eurilda’s ingenuity rather than his own had worked out 
the plan. He concluded before night that the scheme 


210 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


was worth trying, and forthwith the family began to 
make preparations for its consummation. 

I might as well go to see Mr. Sarcott about the 
mortgage before we do much more,” said Eurilda the 
day after the above conversation. “ I think, mother, 
I will walk up there to-night. The road is frozen, and 
it is bright moonlight.” 

Jacob can go with you,” said the widow; but 
Jake demurred, and his mother did not urge him. 

It must not be supposed that Jake was cowardly. 
That he had some reason for not going with Eurilda 
may be inferred from his saying: ^‘You may go and 
see Mr. Sarcott if you want to. Sis, but I want to see 
Bob Loomis awhile to-night.” 

No caller would have been more welcome to Mr. 
Sarcott than the one he was about to have ; for at the 
very moment when Eurilda rang the bell he was pacing 
up and down in his library thinking of the Conways. 

Mary introduced Eurilda into the room, and Mr. 
Sarcott, concealing his surprise, received her with every 
mark of affability. 

The girl, to relieve her embarrassment, had hardly 
taken the proffered chair before she began to announce 
the object of her visit. 

'‘I came, Mr. Sarcott,” she said, ‘‘to attend to a 
little matter of business for mother.” 

“You are right hand man, aren’t you, ’Rilda?” 

Eurilda blushed as she replied: “Mother is not 
very well, you know, and I try to do what I can to re- 
lieve her of her cares. I have called now to see you 
about the little mortgage you have on our place.” 

“Good!” thought Mr. Sarcott, “that’s just what 
has been uppermost in my mind the whole evening. If 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 


21 


I have not worked out my plans by means of the boy, 
who says the girl will fail me ?” He almost snapped his 
fingers aloud, but he concealed his thoughts and said : 
^‘The mortgage! oh, yes, yes, that trifling mortgage; 
well, child, what do you want to know about it?” 

Eurilda explained her plan. ‘‘Better yet,” thought 
Mr. Sarcott. ‘ ‘ This gives me a better opportunity than 
I dreamed of getting. Ha, ha.” 

“ Ha, ha ! ” 

Mr. Sarcott started slightly and looked at Eurilda. 
She was sitting undisturbed — she had evidently heard 
nothing. 

She did not notice Mr. Sarcott’s agitation, and he 
answered her aloud : 

“ Well, my child, the mortgage is not very large, 
and I would willingly consent to your plan, for I know 
such brave children as you and your brother are sure to 
carry out everything they undertake. But I have a 
little plan in mind that, now you are here, I may un- 
fold. Indeed, I had thought of calling on your mother 
this very evening and unfolding it to her. I take it that 
you are a sensible girl, and will not think the plan so 
abrupt as I own it seems.” 

Eurilda’s heart was in her mouth in an instant. Was 
he indeed going to press her to consent to a suit she 
thought he had abandoned long ago ? 

She was not deceived. “ It may seem strange for 
me to say anything to you about this,” continued Mr. 
Sarcott, “for your mother is the person immediately 
concerned. I have known her since she was a girl, my 
child. I have watched you two children grow up, and 
now” — here Mr. Sarcott cleared his throat — “what 

i 


212 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


would you say, my child, if I were to give you all a 
home with me ?” 

Eurilda comprehended him instantly, and her pain- 
ful embarrassment was relieved by Mr. Sarcott when he 
said : “Of course, my girl, you can not answer for your 
mother ; but tell me, have you and your brother any 
objections? Your mother will speak for herself, no 
doubt, but I want to know how you feel about it.” 

Mr. Sarcott was not prepared for Eurilda’s answer : 

‘ ‘ Sir, you have taken a mean advantage of a help- 
less girl, an advantage that does no credit to a man in 
your standing. I am sure my mother would marry 
no one, and certainly no one who scoffs at the very 
faith in which she has always lived. We may be poor, 
sir, but my brother and I wish no assistance purchased 
with money that has been gained as yours has.” 

She took her hat to go, when Mr. Sarcott, who 
hardly knew whether rage or shame had possession of 
him, spoke : 

“So, ho! Your anger doesn’t become a saintly 
young lady. You ’re rather saucy, it seems to me, for 
one who has come to ask favors. But may be, miss, 
your mother is of a different opinion. She probably 
does not countenance this thing of children’s managing 
their parents quite as much as you think.” 

Eurilda made no answer, but, seizing her hat, 
rushed out of the house, her face glowing like a coal. 

Half terrified and half angry, she related this sin- 
gular interview to her mother, stopping at intervals to 
cry. 

“Mother,” said she, “I know you would never 
consent to become Mr. Sarcott’s second wife ; and as for 
Jake and me, how should we dare, after all you have 


IN THE CONWAY COTTAGE AGAIN. 213 

taught US, to depend for a living on a step-father whose 
money comes stamped with the bloated features of the 
drunkards he has made? No, no, mother, Jake and I 
will do anything ; but promise me, mother, that you 
will never consent to this.” 

Before Mrs. Conway could reply to the frantic girl, 
there came a knock at the door, and the widow an- 
swered it only to confront Mr. Sarcott. 

I will not introduce the reader to this interview. 
The village magnate had followed Eurilda home, de- 
termined to push matters to a crisis with Mrs. Conway 
herself. One word, though, the reader may be per- 
mitted to hear: 

“Well, Amelia, as for that, I will not disturb your 
religious notions or prevent your children from attend- 
ing church. Indeed, I may try to get a church here 
myself, by and by.” 

“Liar!” Mr. Sarcott heard this word distinctly. 
Yes, I assert strongly that he heard it, but I know full 
well that it did not come from the lips either of Eurilda 
or her mother. 

“ No, James, for my children’s sake, this is my final 
answer.” Mrs. Conway spoke as one who was making 
a desperate effort to shake off some terrible nightmare. 
When she had spoken she stood erect, and James Sar- 
cott knew how completely he had failed. 

He turned, and, without a word, left the house. 

All this time Jake was unconscious of what was 
happening. He had left the cottage about the time 
that Eurilda did, and, by peering into the window of 
Bob Loomis’ house, we may see him. 

He stood with Bob beside the old desk. The smoky 


214 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


lamp was in Bob’s hand, and on the lid of the desk lay 
a paper. 

Did you find out all about it, Bob ?” asked Jake. 

‘^Yes, boy, I did that very thing. I was in Hana- 
ford all day last Tuesday, and spent a good part of the 
time with Belden and Sprouts. I tell you, Jake, that 
’ere Sprouts is as smart a lawyer as is in this yer coun- 
try. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘Mr. Loomis, this paper shows 
plain enuff that that ’ere mortgige was released. As fur 
that matter, old Square Humpton, who drawed up this 
release, is livin’ about two miles out of town, and we 
can hev his presence any time. Yer all safe, Mr. 
Loomis, ’ says he. ‘ Sarcott hez no more claim on that 
widow’s property then you hev; this paper shows it 
clear enough.’ ” 

Jake listened with the most intense interest. Pres- 
ently Bob resumed : 

“When the time comes, boy, we^ll spring this on 
the old man, and no mistake. Just be patient awhile. 
But, Jake, how on arth do yer suppose that this paper 
come ter be lyin’ around whar I picked it up?” 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

UNCLE joe’s removal. 

Long before Uncle Joe had taken the strange no- 
tion to sell his farm and move to Rising Branch, he 
had known of Mr. Sarcott’s interview with the widow 
at the Conway cottage. Eurilda had never entirely 
recovered from the nervousness produced on that 
eventful night. About the time Uncle Joe had decided 
to leave his old home, she had returned to her mother’s 
cottage, sick. 

“A better girl never walked the earth,” said Mrs. 
Cool, when she brought her home; “ and I only wish 
she could have stayed.” 

Jake had come home from the woolen mill, and 
when he narrated Eurilda’s story to Uncle Joe, the old 
man said to his wife : 

“ We must hurry, Samantha ; fur as sure as we both 
were friends ter Simon Conway, we may hev a chance 
ter help Amelia more then we ever hev. I am anxious 
fur ye ter be near her.” 

Uncle Joe never faltered; yet as the time drew 
near when he should part with his boyhood’s home, 
his heart almost misgave him. 


215 


2i6 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


On the forenoon of the late spring day on which 
the patriarch expected to conclude with his purchaser, 
he walked forth, cane in hand, to look once more over 
the old farm. Aunt Samantha was with him. They 
came to the end of a lane near where stood a large 
maple tree, and beside it a bowlder. Near the bowlder 
bubbled forth a spring, and the stream that trickled 
away from it ran with a mournful sound over the peb- 
bles. How much of the music of our souls do we put 
into the world of nature! To Uncle Joe and Aunt 
Samantha the brook had never sung a funeral song 
before. 

“Joseph! Joseph!” said Aunt Samantha, covering 
her face with her hands and leaning heavily upon her 
crutch, “this field was a part of the land my father 
gave me. Oh, Joseph, how can I ?” 

•'‘Yes, Samantha,” answered the old man, “and 
now before it are too late, ye can say the word, and the 
land this side of the lane will stay in yer name. It are 
yours, and I hev no wish. to part with it if ye are un- 
willin’. But, as fur me, my mind is made up. The 
old homestead must be laid on the altar ; and I feel 
happy in doin’ it.” 

“No, Joseph,” answered his wife, “I will not be 
behind yer in good works. If yer land goes, so must 
mine. If I could only be sure that we are not hevin* 
zeal without knowledge !” 

Uncle Joe was silent. Aunt Samantha’s thought 
impressed him. Was he not more foolish than wise? 
Did the Lord require any such sacrifice? And, after 
all, were his motives right? Once more his old-time 
enemy came back to vex him. Was he not seeking 
glory from men ? 


UNCLE joe’s removal. 


217 


I have heard it said that only once in a lifetime is a 
man called on to fight the great battle of Armageddon, 
and if he gains the victory he is safe forever. But I do 
not believe it. Apollyon contests every inch of the 
way. Over against the plaudit of “Well done, thou 
good and faithful servant,” the Christian hears the 
baffled tempter’s cry of rage. 

Uncle Joe had met the tempter again. “ Little do 
you care for the work of the Lord.” “Doesn’t it 
flatter you to think how the people will talk of Sales’ 
church?” “Will it not tickle your vanity when the 
religious papers notice your generous gift and speak of 
your unselfish sacrifice?” These were the thoughts 
th^t chased each other through his mind. He told 
them to Aunt Samantha. 

“Ah, Joseph,” said the good old woman, “ I can 
not think that them are yer motives. But we would do 
well ter pray to God that we be kept from sacrificin’ our 
few comforts to minister to our pride.” She pulled 
Uncle Joe’s coat, and together they knelt on the green 
grass and prayed. 

When they arose. Uncle Joe said: “Now, Saman- 
tha, I am prepared to say farewell, and be glad.” 

They walked over the old place, noting every spot 
that had been familiar through so many years. Num- 
berless were the memories called up by trees, and 
rocks, and landmarks they had known from childhood. 
As they walked slowly homeward. Uncle Joe quoted 
in a low voice, “Forgetting those things that are 
behind, and reaching forth unto the things that are 
before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the 
high calling of God in Christ Jesus.” 

And so the old farm went. Hand in hand this aged 


2I8 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


couple went out from their home. A humble little cot- 
tage in Rising Branch received them. Uncle Joe had 
bought it in the early summer, and though it was a 
little too modern for good old Aunt Samantha, she 
said nothing but : “ Well, I ’ll miss our big kitchen in 
this little tucked-up house, but then, Joseph, we will 
not need a house long.” 

‘‘No,” said her husband, “and we know that if 
our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we 
have a building of God.” 

But the world said that old Joe Sales was a fool. 


We have already seen how Mr. Sarcott looked upon 
Uncle Joe’s prospect. He at first treated it as a joke, 
but when he was convinced that the old man was in 
earnest, he made ready to foil him. His feelings had 
not been improved by the treatment he had received 
from Mrs. Conway. 

A few days after Uncle Joe had removed to the vil- 
lage, Mr. Sarcott sought -the seclusion of his library to 
prepare another scheme. 

“Well,” said he to himself, “I will have to do it, 
and if she refuses, then I will do it.” He hit the table 
so forcibly with his fist that old Pindar, who lay under 
it, sprang up with a savage growl. 

“Go down to Nannie, sir,” said Mr. Sarcott, and 
the dog obeyed, leaving the bad man to his pet occu- 
pation of scheming. He began his customary talk to 
himself. 

“So old Sales, the crazy fool, is going to put his 
money into a church, and going to get that little trian- 
gular lot of the widow to build it on ! What a pity that 
little spot wasn’t covered by the mortgage! Why 


UNCLE joe’s removal. 


219 


can ’t it be? That ’s it, why can ’t it be ? Well, well, 
why did I not think of it before ? It can be written in 
now. Of course it can. I’m lawyer enough to word 
it myself. The only trouble will be the record. Let 
me see. George Tukeman is Recorder now. Ha, ha ! 
A few shiners will fix George. He’ll get the record 
shaped all right. I’ll do it. I will try the widow once 
more. Now the girl is sick, I know they must be 
pressed for money. May be she will think different of 
it now. If she refuses ” — here a look half of deter- 
mination, half of guilt mingled with shame, crossed 
Mr. Sarcott’s face — “I’ll foreclose. Maybe old Dad 
Sales will need his surplus money then to help his 
friends.” 

‘ ‘ Be not deceived ; God is not mocked ; for whatso- 
ever a man soweth that shall he also reap.” 

“That Mary again!” exclaimed Mr. Sarcott. “But 
no, she has gone out with Nannie. How loud some of 
those old texts seem to ring in a fellow’s mind!” 

That evening Mr. Sarcott was seen driving rapidly 
toward Hanaford. 

It was Saturday evening, and earlier than usual the 
crowd had begun to assemble at Mr. Dill’s store. Sum- 
mer had come with all its heat, but this evening a 
thunder-gust had cleared the air. Among the motley 
assemblage was Bose Compton. He had been drink- 
ing, and was very talkative. 

“ See here, you fellers,” said he, addressing no one 
in particular, “hev you heard that they hev fetched 
them Italyuns?” 

“ Have they, Bose ?” 


220 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“That’s what I heard yisterday in Hanaford. 
Every one of them is going to be sent up.” 

' ‘ Good thing that Dave and young Timmons made 
tracks,” said some one. 

“Dave are safe enuff,” said Bose, “but young 
Timmons will be fool enough to be catched yit. ” 

“ Why, Bose, what do you mean?” 

“Hey!” replied Bose with a knowing leer, “you 
fellers are green if you think Timmons is very far off. 
Bet Jim Sarcott’s oldest gal knows more ’n she ’ll tell.” 

The crowd eyed Bose curiously. 

“Yes, I mean it,” said he. “You fellers just wait 
and you ’ll hear of something one of these days. 

No amount of coaxing could induce Bose to ex- 
plain his enigmatical language. He became very loud 
and boisterous, however, and Mr. Dill, ensconcing him- 
self carefully behind the bar, ordered Jimmy the clerk 
to drive him out. 

“Never mind,” shouted Bose as he went, “you’ll 
hear somethin’ drop afore long.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A REVELATION. 

Mr. Sarcott well knew the great weakness of Mrs. 
Conway. “She ’s strong when she has props enough,” 
said he to himself, as he was walking one morning 
toward the railroad to oversee his workmen. “ I must 
weaken Dad Sales’ influence upon her. That I can do 
by exposing to her his folly in this last movement of 
his. The girl is sick, and that may help me. She has 
her father’s will, and I do believe she inherits some of 
his dislike to me. Simon Conway was always in my 
way. He came between me and Amelia when we were 
young, and now his spirit, embodied in that girl, stands 
in the same place. But ha, ha ! what talk is this for 
me? We’ll soon see whether matter or spirit rules 
things hereabouts.” 

As he spoke he rattled a heavy purse in his pocket 
as though some of the matter aforesaid were waiting on 
him, subject to his will. He stopped under the old oak 
tree in the lane and drew a paper from his pocket. He 
chuckled as he perused it, and exclaimed, “ How like 
a fool I ’ll make the old saint appear to her.” 


921 


222 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


He had not noticed the spot at which he had arrived 
until the deep shadow of the old tree fell heavy on the 
grass before him. He was about to continue his reverie, 
but something caused him to pause. Uncle Joe’s 
prophecy rushed unbidden to memory. 

“Yes, yes; I have no doubt about it a growin’, but 
in the shadder of its arthly prosperity the generation 
that are cornin’ up will become as stunted as the bushes 
tryin’ ter grow in the shadder of that oak.” 

Mr. Sarcott glanced toward the village. Certainly 
four years had wrought a great outward change. Its 
neat white cottages nestled among the trees, and the 
big hall, with its flag-staff reaching skyward, overtopped 
them all. Mr. Dill’s brick store and the new tavern 
gave an air of business to the place that certainly veri- 
fied the magnate’s early predictions. But the prophecy 
of Uncle Joe — had it been fulfilled? Certainly not in 
the letter, for time for a new generation to grow had 
not passed. But what of its spirit? 

Mr. Sarcott would gladly have changed the train of 
his thought, but he could not. What a change had 
been wrought in human lives ! Mollie Stormer was a 
hopeless maniac; poor Jeff was a drunkard; young 
Haines was fast becoming one ; the elder Haines had 
twice suffered from delirium tremens ; David, the host- 
ler, was a fugitive from justice ; young Timmons was 
his companion, and Jake Conway had been swerved 
from a high purpose. Was this prosperity ? 

“Oh, pshaw!” said Mr. Sarcott, wincing under the 
goads of conscience, “these things would have hap- 
pened anyhow. I did a good thing for that boy to get 
him out of the preaching notion, even if the family are 
a little cranky now. I must be getting conscientious to 


A REVELATION. 


223 

let these things bother me. I think I am as sure of 
heaven as the most of the saints.” 

This oft-repeated self-consolation had but little effect, 
for Mr. Sarcott moved from under the shadow of the 
great tree with an uneasy gait, and a face full of per- 
plexity. 

He happened to turn his eyes once more in the di- 
rection of the village ; he had urgent business among 
the hands employed on the long line of embankment 
before him, but something kept him from pushing it. 
The village ! the village ! he could not get it out of his 
thoughts. 

Something in the little lot above the widow Con- 
way’s arrested his attention. It was a team of horses 
hitched to a plow. 

believe,” said he, they ’re going to plow in 
that lot. No, that can ’t be it. Yes they are, too; but 
as sure as I live it is not for a crop. Can it be possible 
that old Dad Sales' is going to commence that church?” 

He started at once toward the lot, talking rapidly to 
himself. He could plainly see Uncle Joe Sales, old 
Father Leeb, and several others, in the road near the 
fence. A tall man, rather well dressed in black, and 
wearing a high hat, seemed to be talking with Uncle 
Joe. 

* ‘ That is that crank preacher that coaxed the old 
man into this fool scheme,” said Mr. Sarcott. ^‘Heav- 
ens ! what a fire-ball I ’ll drop in among them !” 

As he said this he crossed the fence that separated 
him from the main road. A sawdust walk skirted it on 
the outside, and the magnate had barely touched it 
when a shadow fell before him. He looked up, and 
encountered Mrs. Conway. 


224 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


So suddenly had she appeared that he had not time 
to frame one of his wary, dissimulating greetings. He 
stammered out : 

“Why, Amelia, is it you? Well, how goes the 
battle ?” 

Mrs. Conway looked up. Her face was red, and 
she had evidently been crying. 

“Not very well, James. Eurilda is quite sick this 
morning. I was going to the post-office to send a note 
for Dr. Peters.” 

There was something so tender in her tone, and in 
her face something that seemed so much to crave sym- 
pathy, or, as Mr, Sarcott translated it, assistance, that 
all of his old-time endeavor was roused again to a new 
action. 

“Amelia!” He repeated but the one word, and 
looked her steadily in the eye. There was no need of 
further conversation, for the widow felt that in that one 
word Mr. Sarcott had repeated all the importunity of 
his previous encounter. 

She cast down her face, and Mr. Sarcott knew that 
an inward struggle was again tormenting her. 

He was right. Rapidly as the shadows roll over 
the fields, when the wind drives the clouds across the 
sun, did two pictures chase each other through her 
mind. Mr. Sarcott was not so bad a man after all, and 
he could do so much for her children. May be she 
could do much for his. It was but a fair exchange. 
Perhaps her friends were wrong in dissuading her. She 
was alone, and in her weakness had well-nigh yielded. 

But the vision of her sick child came before her, 
and as the thought of Eurilda’s wishes rose before her 
the first picture vanished, and Mr. Sarcott became a 


A REVELATION. 


225 


cold, scheming man. He would make her life miser- 
able with his unbelief and settle Jake hopelessly in the 
way of worldliness. 

‘‘No, James, not now. I can not, I can not.” 

Mr. Sarcott had always prided himself on being a 
mind reader. So certainly had he argued, from the 
widow’s face, to a favorable answer, that her words 
came with the very sword-thrust of disappointment. 
He was angry. He spoke excitedly, and' what he said 
was so utterly unpremeditated that it had no more than 
escaped his lips before he cursed himself for saying it. 

“ Well, then, be a fool. I have tried to help you, 
so now take the consequences. You might as well know 
that I have filed a notice of foreclosure on the place. 
Business is pressing, and if your other friends can help 
you more than I, now is their time. Three months is 
the best I can do for you.” 

The widow made no answer, but it was well that 
Mr. Sarcott did not see her face. She hastened on, 
and the great man in a very bad humor approached 
the lot. 

He came up to Uncle Joe with a frown. “Well, 
Sales, you are bound to be a Solomon, are you ? When 
did the Lord call you to build his temple, anyhow?” 

“ I make no pertenshuns ter bein’ a Solomon, James, 
nor hez the Lord called me ter build him a house any 
more than he hez you.” 

“Well, he has not called me, unless it is to know 
who gave you a right to trespass on this property.” 

Uncle Joe looked up in surprise. 

“Yes, that ’s just what I mean,” said Mr. Sarcott. 

“What, Joseph,” s^id Father Leeb in great 


226 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


astonishment, understood you that this lot was 
Amelia’s.” 

“So it are,” answered Uncle Joe, a little tartly; 
“ I don’t know what James means.” 

“ I mean,” said Mr. Sarcott, “ that this lot is in- 
cluded in the mortgage I have on the widow’s place, 
and she has no power to transfer it without my consent, 
for the mortgage is overdue, and I have determined to 
foreclose. ” 

“What, James!” replied Uncle Joe ; “I thought 
you war goin’ ter give the widder a chance ter redeem 
her home, and surely we kin help her do it if yer do 
not push us.” 

“ I can ’t wait any longer, and I won’t,” said Mr. 
Sarcott, angrily, “and now this business of yours had 
better stop, before I have it stopped for you.” 

“Why, James,” pleaded Uncle Joe, “the widder 
surely do n’t think this lot are covered by the mortgige. 
She told me she had held ter it, and it were free.” 

“Well, she is mistaken, and that badly. If you 
do n’t look up these things for yourself, it is not my 
fault. It seems to me if you would mind your own 
business, and put your church down at Craggy Hill 
where it ought to be, you would be wise. As for you, 
sir,” here Mr. Sarcott turned to Elder Tarford, “you 
ought to be in better business than to delude a few 
dotards into schemes for enriching a clergy already so 
corrupt as to be a disgrace in our land.” 

Elder Tarford knew not what to reply. Uncle Joe, 
however, saved him any attempt to do so. 

“Yer must be mistaken, James, about this lot.” 

“lam not mistaken,” replied Mr. Sarcott with an 
oath, “and I want you to know it. I told you four 


A REVELATION. 


227 


years ago that we did n’t need any of this church non- 
sense here, and now I tell you again we are not going 
to have it.” 

Uncle Joe made no answer. He had whispered to 
Elder Tarford, and that gentleman walked immediately 
to the cottage. 

Hardly had he entered it, when Jake was seen to 
emerge and walk toward Bob Loomis’ shop. 

Bob Loomis was shoeing a horse. Jake ran in, all 
out of breath. “ Bob, quick, get that paper and come 
over to the lot; the time has come sooner than we 
thought.” 

‘‘ Go it,” shouted Bob, slapping the horse with his 
hand and almost bounding into the house, “I’m yer 
man.” 

He returned, and with him came an old gray-haired 
man leaning upon a cane. 

“Yer see, Jake, the Square is my father-in-lar, and 
I hev hed him here a visitin’ fur several days hopin’ we 
might need him, and here ’s a chance. Hooray !” 

The trio approached the lot, where Mr. Sarcott’s 
voice rose in loud tones. 

“The old man must be mad. We’ll make him 
madder,” said Bob. 

As Bob climbed the fence Uncle Joe advanced to 
meet him, and said : “I think Robert Loomis here kin 
explain this matter.” 

Mr. Sarcott turning, saw Bob, and, catching Uncle 
Joe’s remark, he burst out into a perfect fit of rage and 
surprise. 

“What do you mean, you old hypocrite? Does 
your Bible teach you to insult honest men ? Am I a 
liar?” 


228 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“Give me that paper, Robert,” said the old man, 
at the same time taking it from Bob’s outstretched 
hand. 

“What!” said Mr. Sarcott in amazement, “has 
this traitor been in your employ ?” 

Uncle Joe handed the paper to Elder Tarford, who 
had returned. A silence fell on all as the elder un- 
folded it and read. Mr. Sarcott, shading his eyes, 
looked keenly at the paper : 

Hanaford, November 5, 18 — . 

In consideration of the amount of $ , paid to me this day by 

Simon Conway, being the amount of a mortgage held by me on the 
herein described real estate of Simon Conway aforesaid (here followed 
a description of the Conway home), I do hereby release all my claims, 
and the claims of my heirs and assigns, to the property afore mentioned 
and herein described, and all rights and privileges declared in said 
mortgage are hereby relinquished; and this paper is given to witness 
that any claim hereafter preferred by any of my executors, heirs or 
assigns, in consideration of the terms declared in this mortgage, is and 
shall be invalid. James Sarcott. 

In witness whereof I have subscribed my name and affixed the seal 
of my office. L. Hampton, Notary Public. 

“You have robbed my house “of private papers I” 
shouted Mr. Sarcott, starting toward Bob with clenched 
fist. 

“So ho!” shouted Bob, “ yer must hev hed the 
paper, then.” 

Mr. Sarcott saw his mistake instantly. “It is a 
base forgery,” he cried, “ and I — ” 

“ Here’s some one as kin tell if it is or no,” said 
the blacksmith, at the same time giving a sharp whistle. 

The old gray-haired man, who until now had re- 
mained, at Bob’s bidding, concealed beyond the fence, 
now climbed over with difficulty and approached. Had 


A REVELATION. 


229 


the ghost of his dead wife appeared, Mr. Sarcott would 
not have turned paler. He stood transfixed, with a look 
of horror on his face. 

Why, Jim,” said the old man, slowly, “ yer 
need n’t be sheered. I know I hev bin reported dead 
this many a year, but, as yer see, I ain’t. I drifted out 
ter Californy, time o’ the gold fever, stumped about the 
mines awhile, then went ter sea, and was as good as 
dead fur all any one knew. I got back ter my son’s, 
over by Hannyford, a month back, and this fool black- 
smith got me over here day afore yesterday, seein’ as 
he run off with my gal years ago. Well, now, Jim, yer 
might as well own up. Yer know that Simon paid yer 
that mortgige, and I drawed up that paper, which yer 
signed. Of course no one dreamed then that old 
Square Hampton were goin’ ter become an outcast, but 
I did, after my Huldy died, and the whisky yer made 
in yer distillery over at Hannyford is what did it. But 
I ’m here, Jim, and kin testify to the genooiness of that 
paper. I dunno how yer ever got the mortgige inter 
yer hands agin.” 

*‘’Tis forgery and blackmail,” said Mr. Sarcott, 
but his voice was low; he trembled in every limb, 
and a cold sweat stood on his forehead in great 
drops. 

Half an hour later Mr. Sarcott entered his library. 
He rushed, father than walked, to his desk and threw 
open the drawer. The papers were there as Nannie 
had left them ; but one paper was gone. 

*‘Who in heaven’s name,” cried the astonished 
man, beating his breast, ”has ever been to this 
drawer ?” 


230 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Old Pindar lay under the table panting, but he only 
eyed his master and volunteered no information. 

"‘Bob,” said Jake, after Mr. Sarcott had gone, “is 
the old Squire your father-in-law?” 

“He are,” said Bob. “He left this town years 
ago, arter I ran away with Laury, which proceedin’ 
killed her mother, and set the old man ter drinkin’. I 
thought he hed died in Californy, and I found out of 
his cornin’ back when I war workin’ that Pounds bisness 
fur yer.” 


Mr. Sarcott had been about an hour in his library 
when he was aroused from his dejection by the sound 
of Nannie’s crying. He hastened down stairs, and on 
the landing met Mary. 

“What is the matter?” he demanded. 

“ Oh, only a little more fruit from the tree you have 
been nourishing,” said Mary, coolly. 

“ What do you mean?” 

“Oh, papa, Jennie is gone, Jennie is gone!” shouted 
Nannie, appearing in the hall. 

“Look here, James,” said Mary, showing the way 
to Jennie’s room. Everything was in confusion. The 
bureau was open, and its drawers were empty. 

“What is it ? What do you mean ?” fairly shrieked 
the excited man. 

“I mean nothing but what you can see except this.” 
She handed him a crumpled envelope. 

He read: “All right, Jen, meet me at (here the 
paper was torn) Bose will — ” There was nothing more 
to be made out but, “have the cash, be sure. — Will.” 

Mr. Sarcott could not speak. 


A REVELATION. 


23 


“Listen, James,’’ said Mary. “Be still, Nannie. I 
I have suspected, from talk dropped by that drunken 
Bose Compton, that Will Timmons has not been as far 
away as some think. He has had correspondence with 
Jennie all this summer, and some how has allured her 
away. It is plain that she has eloped with him. When 
and how I do not know.” 

A loud knocking at the door now interrupted them. 
Mary opened it. A young man handed her a letter. 
Mr. Sarcott snatched it and broke the seal. It was a 
notice from the Bank of Hanaford that his last checks 
were protested. Two checks were enclosed, and “No 
funds” written on them. 

“You see, sir,” said the messenger, “ that within 
the last month several large amounts have been paid on 
checks to your order. They were sent from here by 
mail, and the money sent back in the same way. Your 
funds are exhausted, and the cashier sent me to see 
you.” 

Mr. Sarcott, bidding the man to await his return, 
immediately went to Mr. Dill’s store, where the post- 
office was kept. 

A hasty investigation revealed all. Jennie had sent 
letters directed to the Hanaford Bank. Mr. Dill, too 
stupid to notice anything wrong, had never mentioned 
it to her father. 

“My God,” said Mr. Sarcott, “she could imitate 
my writing exactly, and has been persuaded by that 
young wretch to forge my name.” 

In less than a week a detective had arrested Bose 
Compton. He had allowed young Timmons to make 
his house a secret place of retreat, had helped him 


232 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


away with Jennie, and had received some of the stolen 
money. 

At the bank it was discovered that eight checks had 
been sent to Rising Branch, the cashier thinking that 
Mr. Sarcott had signed them, his signature being so 
peculiar. The forger was certainly an expert. Twenty 
thousand dollars had been drawn in the big man’s 
name. Like wildfire the news spread, and with it cir- 
culated the report that the contractor had thereby 
failed, and the railroad was for the time to stand still. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE MOB. 

The Saturday night that followed these events was 
long remembered by the inhabitants of Rising Branch. 

He hez failed!” said Colby Haines, as he reeled 
along the street. 

The cry was taken up by many of the laborers, who 
had congregated at the store. 

“ He owes me a hundred dollars,” cried one. 

“ Every man that worked for him will lose the last 
month’s wages,” shouted another. 

** The road ’s gone up !” 

Good-bye stockholders I” 

Let ’s have it out of him 1” 

“He owns this store ; let ’s go for it !” 

This last cry was a signal for a general uprising. A 
wild mob of laborers, a few Italians among them, and 
Colby Haines at their head, rushed with drunken shouts 
toward the store. Mr. Dill fled at the back door. 

The bar was sacked, and the mob, becoming more 
drunken, filled the night with hideous cries. 

“To his house! to his house! Don’t let him get 
away with his pockets full.” 


233 


234 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


He has money enough to pay us — let’s have it!” 

Oaths and cries filled the air as the mob rushed 
toward the mansion of the unfortunate man. 

Bust in the door 1” “ Hang him I” “Where’s 

our pay?” 

Two stalwart men had seized a big plank and were 
starting toward the house, when the door opened and 
revealed a picture that made the mob quail. 

The big chandelier hung lighted in the hall-way. 
Before it stood Mary. She was clad in black ; her hair 
fell down on her shoulders, while her dark eyes, ablaze 
with wrath, glanced along the polished barrel of a large 
pistol. 

The men dropped the plank, leaving Colby Haines, 
who stood behind them, to face the apparition. 

“ I shall defend this house, by God’s help,” said the 
woman. “ Colby, wretched drunkard that you are, do 
you realize what you are doing?” 

Colby stood as though frozen. The loud shouts 
ceased, and in the lull Mary stepped forward and 
spoke : 

“Fools, will you add murder and arson to this 
Satanic outburst? The man you want is not dunce 
enough to fall into your hands. He is not here. Who 
told you that you would lose your pay ? Every cent 
will be paid. I know it. Go, you demons, do not dare 
to force this door. You will curse this night’s folly 
when you get sober.” 

The crowd fell back, and a prolonged murmur swept 
it like a low wind in the forest. Three or four oaths 
broke the stillness. They were but receding thunders, 
for the storm had passed. 

But what of Mr. Sarcott? 


THE MOB. 


235 


The week was drawing to a close. Rumors of all 
kinds had been circulated among the railroad hands. 
Deeper and deeper grew the anxiety as pay-day even- 
ing approached. Nobody was working in the afternoon, 
and many voices were inquiring for the contractor. 
There was a little office in the front part of Mr. 
Dill’s store, where all the business of the road had 
been transacted. It had been deserted for several 
days. 

‘‘Indeed, I do not know,” said Mr. Dill, wringing 
his hands. “ I am as anxious as you are to know where 
he is. Indeed — ah, I assure you — gentlemen, truly 
I am in ignorance. His housekeeper would not even 
admit me. Indeed, I — ” 

“Who is that ?” 

A two-horse barouche had stopped before the store 
a man alighted and gave Mr. Dill a paper. 

“ We will take possession Monday,” said he. Mr. 
Dill turned toward the counter. Colby Haines was the 
first man who spoke. 

‘ ‘ Assigned ?” 

Mr. Dill nodded. 

The drunkard rushed into the street with the cry 
upon his lips. 

Up and down, up and down, walked Mr. Sarcott in 
his library, with his hands folded behind him and his 
head bowed. 

“Retribution, retribution!” murmured he as he 
walked. 

‘ ‘ Why did you not listen to the voice of your bet- 
ter self?” 

Mr. Sarcott stopped suddenly. 


236 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


‘‘I mean what I say,” continued Mary, with her 
dark eyes flashing upon him. 

“I have heard no voices' but yours. Every now 
and then you have flung some of my sins into my 
teeth,” replied Mr. Sarcott. 

“ You have not heard me as often as you think,” re- 
turned the woman. ‘ Conscience has a loud voice some- 
times. But listen ! Do you know, James Sarcott, that 
there is every sign of a riot in the village? You are 
not safe here.” 

How has the news of my assignment got abroad ?” 

‘'How should I know ?” answered Mary; “but I 
tell you you are not safe here. No doubt your own 
whisky is helping to infuriate these men. Go, let me 
meet them.” 

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Sarcott, “I leave my 
house to a howling mob and flee, thrusting a woman 
between me and danger ! Are you mad ? Are you 
crazy ? Did I ever act the coward ? Go yourself ; take 
Nannie and leave the house at the back door. Give me 
my pistol, and — ” 

“Hush!” answered Mary, and a moment of quiet 
followed, broken by the shouts and cries of the ap- 
proaching mob. 

“James,” said she, “these men are furious with 
drink. One glimpse of ,you would turn them into 
fiends. Go, I tell you, quickly to Uncle Joe’s; you can 
reach there by the back lane. If any one can quell 
this angry sea, it is he. Come back then, if you fear 
the imputation of cowardice. But as you are, I know 
you or they would shed blood. Will you complete with 
a pistol what your cursed liquor has begun ? Go, I tell 
you, and speak to Uncle Joe,” 


THE MOB. 237 

And Mr. Sarcott went out into that summer night, 
that he might be saved from the brand of Cain. 

“I would be a murderer if it were not for her,” 
siad he, when Uncle Joe’s astonishment had subsided. 
“God’s wrath has overtaken me, and I can not sink 
myself deeper into perdition. She says you must 
come. I have obeyed her, as I always have. I can not 
help it.” 

“God be praised,” answered Uncle Joe, “that she 
has saved you from this. Samantha — ” 

“I want nothing,” said Mr. Sarcott, “I will return 
with Uncle Joe. Be quick! do you not hear the cursed 
wretches ?” 

Uncle Joe started from his house, and as he went he 
murmured: “ I go in the name of the Lord of hosts, 
who will shield me from this Goliath of sin as he did 
his sarvint David.” 

The reader knows how, in the interval, the dark- 
eyed governess had met the cowardly mob. A few 
shouts, a random shot or two, some loud oaths and 
much angry talking, told that the remnant of the mob 
had come back to the front of the store. Thither Uncle 
Joe made his way. His bent form coming out of the 
darkness was a signal for silence. 

“ ’T is old Sales,” whispered a man. The crowd 
parted, and in a moment the old man stood in the 
midst. 

“ Boys,” said he, in a voice clear as a silver bell, 
“I have some news.” 

“ Go on,” shouted some one. 

“Every cent of this indebtedness shall be paid, and 
no man shall lose a dollar.” 

“Who said so ?” 


238 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


“I said so,” shouted the old man in a voice of 
thunder, “and Joseph Sales never lied.” 

“Do you know it, Daddy — are you certain?” 

“ As a man and before God,” cried the old man, 
“I tell you I know the condition of this estate, and 
every rod of it will go before a laborer shall lose a 
penny.” 

“Good for the old man. He’s all right; he 
knows.” 

These and similar shouts, accompanied occasionally 
by the crack of a pistol fired into the air, continued for 
some time after the old man had disappeared; but 
gradually quiet settled over the excited town. 

Uncle Joe left the street, and joined Mr. Sarcott 
under the old oak. 

“James, I have given them my word,” said he, 

‘ ‘ on your representation. It can ’t be that yer a de- 
ceivin’ me.” 

“Everything I have shall go,” answered the dis- 
tressed man, “ before any one shall lose a cent.” 

“And now, James,” said Uncle Joe,‘ “yer hev 
sartainly come to the hour of retribution ; tell me, in 
this moment when ye hev met God face ter face, how 
did yer come ter hev thet mortgige and thet release in 
yer possession?” 

“ This is certainly a fitting place for a confession !” 
said Mr. Sarcott, as he glanced up into the dark, 
gloomy branches of the old tree. “I will tell you, 
Uncle Joe. When Simon Conway and I had settled 
that affair in the office of old Squire Hampton, Simon 
went out, forgetting to take those papers. I picked 
them up ; he was taken sick that very day. I knew he 
had not told his wife of the transaction, and I kept the 


THE MOB. 


239 


papers. My own wife was dead. I hoped some day to 
use them as you see. I wanted to make money. From 
the curse of the instrumentalities by which I hoped to 
get rich I was selfish enough to want to shield my own 
children. Why not give them Amelia Conway for a 
step-mother? But you know the rest ; now tell me how 
you and Bob came by that paper.” 

Uncle Joe told him. 

‘ ‘ Whom I chose to be my tool in iniquity, has been 
turned to my destruction.” 

“Aye,” said Uncle Joe solemnly; then after a 
pause, “Be not deceived, God is not mocked: for 
whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.” 

The late night wind sounded through the branches 
of the oak. 

“It sounds like a requiem,” said Mr. Sarcott ; 
“ God grant it may be one of my past life.” 

“And that you may awake to a better,” said 
Uncle Joe. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE WHITE CHURCH, EURILDA, AND UNCLE JOE. 

Life had not wholly ceased in Rising Branch. In- 
deed, there was some bustle there, but how different 
was the cause. A few weeks before, the building of the 
railroad had been the main-spring of all its activity ; 
now it was the building of the little church. Uncle 
Joe had given half his means to this end; the work 
had been let, and slowly but surely the temple of God 
began to arise in the godless town. Every bit of Mr. 
Sarcott’s property was sold to cover his indebtedness. 
The big house was shut up. A clerk employed by the 
assignees was in the store, and the Sarcott family was 
gone. Rumor said that Mr. Sarcott was sick at the 
home of a relative in Carterville. 

It was with satisfaction that Uncle Joe saw the little 
chapel rising to completion. Every day he hobbled 
forth to watch the workmen. A monotony, made 
doubly apparent by the era of prosperity that 
preceded it, was relieved by the sound of saw and 
hammer and the rattling of occasional loads of lumber 
over the dusty road. The best inhabitants of the vil- 


240 


EURILDA AND UNCLE JOE. 


241 


lage, wrecked in fortune and blasted in hopes, now 
blessed the old man’s enterprise. It was to them the 
sign of heart-beat in a town well nigh fallen into the 
hands of death. 

At last the building was enclosed, and the master- 
workman came to Uncle Joe to consult about its color. 

“ Paint it white,” said the old man, with great em- 
phasis, “paint it white — the only color fit fur one o’ 
the Lord’s sanctooaries ; but let the blinds be green, 
like the folyage of his own woods, or the color of the 
great sea he controls.” 

And so the little chapel was painted white, and the 
setting sun of those fading summer days touched the 
gilded ball on the spire, until it shone with a radiance 
that found its counterpart in Uncle Joe’s heart. 

But a cloud was in the sky of the old man’s joy. 
What it was, the reader may know as he catches a frag- 
ment of this conversation with Mrs. Conway. 

“Oh, Uncle Joe, these shattered hopes, these 
ruined fortunes are not the only results of his folly. 
Who shall turn back the thought of my poor boy from 
the allurements of the world to that calling into which 
his father, when he died, believed he had directed him ? 
and oh, who shall relieve me of this burden of guilt, the 
thought of my own weakness, my own want of faith ?” 

“Look ter God, Amelia,” replied Uncle Joe in a 
sympathetic tone ; “ but is it indeed as bad as this?” 

“ Yes,” replied the widow; “everyday but con- 
firms Jake’s dislike to all things religious.” 

“I see he hez never once kem near the chapel,” 
said the old man ; “ but I thought he war busy down in 
Hanny-ford, and hadn’t the time.” 

“ He has studiously avoided it,” replied the widow; 


242 THE WHITE CHURCH. 

talks only of getting a better salary, of wanting to 
be rich, and the home he will some day get for me and 
’Rilda. He laments the failure of the railroad here 
only because it makes the town dull.” 

Mrs. Conway was right. Nothing was more 
marked than Jake’s utter commitment to things of the 
earth, earthy. 

Day by day he built his castles in the air. They 
were all of one kind. He walked in the very midst of 
his own houses and lands. The big house of Mr. Sar- 
cott was his. The store was his. He ovvned half a 
dozen cottages. The railroad was in full operation and 
he was a stockholder. He made the most elaborate 
calculations of his daily income. Now it was so much, 
now a little more, to-day a little less. Sometimes he 
changed the scene. He lived at Hanaford now in a 
house as real in existence as its ownership was imagin- 
ary. He had it arranged just so. Now his mother 
and Eurilda lived with him. Now he was married and 
they lived in a neat house close by, a gift from him. 
His dreamy manner sometimes led him into trouble. 
He was forgetful and his employers sometimes admon- 
ished him. He came home on Saturdays. He was 
home, as we have seen, when the revelation of Bob’s 
paper had so strangely relieved his family of a great 
care. One thing in the interval of these visits troubled 
him, and often brought him out of his reveries into 
reality. It was the pale face of Eurilda. When the 
big woods that lay far up the Branch beyond Craggy 
Hill were resounding to the songs of a Harvest Home 
festival, it was reported that she was dying, and kind 
neighbors hastened to the Conway cottage to find, in- 
deed, a very sick girl and a frightened family. 


EURILDA AND UNCLE JOE. 243 

Jake’s face was pale and no eye scanned the doc- 
tor’s face more anxiously then did his. 

It was the last day of summer. So Aunt Samantha 
had said when she came that morning to visit Eurilda, 
and the girl had answered, “Yes, Aunt Samantha, and 
the brief summer of my life is almost gone.” 

Jake was overcome with emotion. Eurilda caught 
sight of him and eagerly beckoned him to her. 

“Jake, I know that my end is near; bend down 
here, O brother; I will go happy if only — Jake, are 
you listening?” The boy threw his arms about her 
neck and wept. 

“Gently, my lad,” said Dr. Peters, softly disengag- 
ing him, “put your ear down; she can whisper, but 
that is all.” 

“ O, Jake, promise me, here before mother and 
all, will you ?” 

“Anything, O Eurilda, anything; but I can not 
let you go.” 

“ Did you say anything 

“Yes, anything."' 

“Then promise me here that you will follow the 
wish of your father to preach Christ’s gospel to perish- 
ing men.” 

There was a strange and solemn pause. The 
widow’s head was bowed and in silent prayer knelt 
Uncle Joe and his aged wife beside the bed. 

“I go to meet father ; Jake, shall I tell him?” 

For a moment the boy hesitated. Even there at 
the bedside of his sister he felt the tempter’s hand 
upon his heart. 

It was but a moment. “ I will, Eurilda.” 

^^Amen,” said Uncle Joe, “Amen, Amen.” 


244 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


Come softly, O summer night ! Moan gently, O 
twilight breeze ! The Conway cottage is silent now ; 
but who shall fail to read the lesson ? A life turned 
again to the path of rectitude. A life sacrificed to ac- 
complish it. 


There is a time of year I call transition time ; it is 
when summer fades insensibly into autumn, and the 
music of the katy-dids nightly attends the transformation. 

This time had come. A new grave had been made 
at Craggy Hill ; a new church had been finished in Ris- 
ing Branch. There was to be a dedication. Around the 
grave, the hearts of two lingered in the first dark hours 
of a bitter bereavement. Around the church gathered 
the hopes of a neighborhood in the first bright hours 
of a coming morn. 

“ Tis the Lord’s own day, Samantha,” cried Uncle 
Joe, “and ter-day we are ter give ter him our chapel.” 

The old couple bustled about with youthful alac- 
rity ; and well they might, for to both of them it was a 
day of triumph. 

“The Elder will be here before weVe ready, 
Samantha,” said the old man, nervously, “and jest see 
how the people are a pilin’ in.” 

“Don’t be flattered at that, Joseph,” said Aunt 
Samantha; “curiosity, I fear, more than anythin’ else, 
explains thet.” 

“ I know it,” said the old man, in reply ; “but the 
Lord’s word may be blessed among ’em, fur all thet. 
Did n’t ye read in some book of them that kem ter 
scoff, and stayed ter pray?” 

“I did,” answered the good old woman, “and I 
hope this day will see seed sowed that will bear fruit.” 


EURILDA AND UNCLE JOE. 


245 


Oh, what a crowd gathered to the dedication ! Not 
one-half of them could get inside; and when it was 
proposed to go out and hold the services on the beauti-. 
ful green in front of the church, the movement was re- 
ceived with great joy. 

The earnest and eloquent sermon of Elder Tarford 
was ended. Impressive as it had been, it was not 
more so than when he said : 

*‘And now, my friends and brethren, we owe this 
house, under God, to the self-sacrifice of one man. I 
have not as-ked him, but I ask you, shall he be allowed 
to bear this burden alone?” 

The Elder said not another word. A glance at the 
congregation would have shown at once the score that 
were eager to contribute ; but before any movement 
could be made to satisfy their desires, a man arose, and 
a general stillness followed. It was Elder Tribbey. He 
advanced, and, grasping the astonished old man by the 
hand, said : 

Brother Sales, I speak for Craggy Hill. In the 
presence of these witnesses we acknowledge our mis- 
take. Brother Tarford’s preaching has powerfully 
moved us, but not so much so as the manifestations of 
God’s displeasure on this unhappy village. We come 
as a congregation, and ask to unite our efforts with 
yours to build up in this place the cause of Christ.” 

The echo of these words had not died, when an- 
other form arose from beside a tree near the stand, and 
walked slowly into the midst of the people. No wonder 
they were astonished. No wonder Uncle Joe grasped 
the coat of Elder Tarford to keep from falling. 

'‘Be calm, my friends. It is I. I see you are 


246 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


amazed to see me here, nor shall I explain how I came. 
I have other things to say.” 

Taking his place a little to one side Mr. Sarcott 
pointed, with a hand sadly emaciated, toward the de- 
serted railroad embankment that stretched away in full 
sight of the people. 

Yonder,” said he, in a tone almost sepulchral, 
*Ms my work begun four years ago, in the flush of my 
pride and the blindness of my infidelity. Look at it. 
It is desolate and abandoned.” Then he pointed the 
same bony hand toward the white church, whose spire 
now blazed in the glory of the afternoon sun, and 
added, ‘‘ Here is the work of God that I opposed.” He 
was silent for a moment, and then, turning slowly to- 
ward the congregation, he asked : “ And do you read 
the lesson ?” 

The reply was from Elder Tarford: ^‘Butif it be 
of God, ye can not overthrow it, lest haply ye be found 
even to fight against God. And now, my brother,” 
continued the Elder, these are no doubt the days of 
your repentance. Come — ” 

No, ’’said Mr. Sarcott, waving him away, ‘^not 
yet. When I have brought forth fruit meet for repen- 
tance, then, and not till then.” 

The excitement had been too much for Uncle Joe. 
Out of pure excess of joy he fainted away, and they 
bore him to his cottage, where he awoke in the de- 
lirium of fever. At intervals through the night he 
shouted: “It hez kem, it hez kem ! the Lord be 
praised ! the mornin’ of a new day is kem ter Risin* 
Branch.” 

As days wore on he grew no better ; but it was in a 


EURILDA AND UNCLE JOE. 247 

moment of perfect lucidity that he called his good wife 
to him and said : 

“Samantha, I would die happier yit, if some one 
could whisper thet James had formilly give his heart 
ter God.” 

“He will come, Joseph,” answered she, “ he will 
come. God has called him ter endoor another afflic- 
shun. I wish yer might be spared the pain of know- 
in’ it.” 

“What?” asked Uncle Joe, anxiously. 

“His Jennie are come home ter die. She war 
abandoned by that wretch, and now she hez come 
home ter James’ sisters in Carterville. Consumpshin 
will soon relieve her of the burdins of life. And, 
Joseph, she hez give the remnint of her days ter God. 
’Tis late, I know, but oh, who is ter blame? No won- 
der James said : ‘ Let me bring forth fruit meet fur re- 
pentince. ’ ” 

“Push my lounge near ter the winder, Samantha, 
thet I may see the little chapel.” 

Aunt Samantha did so, and presently the old man 
spoke again : 

‘ ‘ Samantha, our own children hev laid in the grave 
this many a year. We leave no child to perpetooate 
our name or continner the good we have been tryin’ 
ter do. Our earthly means is almost gone, and our 
lives, specially mine, is nigh on ter ended.” He 
pointed to the church, and asked, “Are yer sorry, 
Samantha, we made the sacrifice ?” 

“No,” said Aunt Samantha, “blessed be the 
Lord.” 

The delirium returned, and the old man grew 
flighty. He insisted on lying on a lounge at the 


248 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


window and gazing at the spire of the little church. 
There came a night when the moon was full, and filled 
the midnight sky with light. 

Uncle Joe lay gazing at the gilded ball upon the 
spire. Its dark side was toward him. Suddenly the 
moon sailed from behind it and bathed it in silver 
light. 

It ’s a sign, it *s a sign !” shouted the dying man. 

God is pleased with my work, and I am lookin’ at 
the glory of his presence.” 

Poor old Uncle Joe ! He raised his hands and 
gazed with rapt attention on the beautiful scene. Then 
his head sank down and his arms fell at his side. 

There was a low sigh from Aunt Samantha, and 
the old clock was slowly striking twelve. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CONCLUSION. 

A few years ago business called me to the town of 
Hanaford. A little beyond the station I saw a track 
which branched off to the right. 

“ Is that a switch ?” I asked a bystander. 

“Oh, ho,” was the reply, “that’s where the road 
branches off to Carterville. ” 

“What ! over through Rising Branch ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Has that road been built ?” 

“Oh, yes;” answered my friend; “several years 
now. You see, the first contractor failed, and the pro- 
ject fell through. A new company got hold of the 
road, though, and five years ago it was finished. You 
see, that road was bound to come sometime ; there are 
no richer lands in the country than those down this 
valley. Here is the local freight for Carterville now.” 

Instantly an impulse seized me to visit Rising 
Branch. It would be out of my way, but I had time. 

I boarded the dingy caboose, and sat for a long 
time speculating on the great changes that would meet 
my eye. It seemed as though the switching would 

249 


250 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


never be done. At last the train started, and my 
reverie was broken by a pleasant voice : ^ ‘ Ticket, 
sir!” 

I fumbled in my pocket for the money (I had not 
bought a ticket), and, looking up, handed it to the con- 
ductor. One glimpse of that face was enough. 

“ What I Bob Loomis, as sure as I have eyes I” 

“The same, sir ; well, well, I am glad ter see you. 
S ’pose you are goin’ to give the village a little visit. 
Bin a long time since you war there.” 

‘ ‘ Seven years, at least. And so you ’re on the rail- 
road, Bob ?” 

“Yes, I have a steddy job now, as you see. It’s 
only lately that I got to conductin’. I war brakin’ fur 
the last four years, but when Andy Pike got promotid 
ter the passenger, they give me this local.” 

“ Tell me. Bob, I can not wait ; I want to know all 
about the village.” 

“ Well, sir, you ’ll see a great change. I tell you, 
nobody ever speaks of Risin’ Branch as a godless 
town now ; yet it is as flourishin’ a place as lies along 
the road.” 

“So the white church has done a great work ?” 

“Yes, it has; and the mem ’ry of Uncle Joe Sales 
and his wife will never die while church spires pint ter 
heavin.” 

“ Of course old Aunt Samantha is dead ?” 

‘ ‘ Long ago ; the old folks are both sleepin’ side o’ 
their children at Craggy Hill.” 

“Craggy Hill ?” 

“Yes ; you see, they keep the graveyard there yet, 
but the old log meetin’-house has been gone this many 
a day.” 


CONCLUSION. 251 

*'But what of Mr. Sarcott — did he ever join the 
church ?” 

‘^Oh, yes,” answered Bob; ‘‘he did, and he lives 
in the village in a little cottage — all that was saved of 
his big property. His old housekeeper, Mary, is still 
with him. Nobody else could understand his ways. 
He would never become an officer of the church. ‘ Let 
me sit furever in the lowest seat,’ is all that he will 
say ; but he goes pretty reg ’lar. His older children 
never come home now-a-days ; Jinnie, you know, is 
dead, and Nannie — ” ' 

“Oh, yes, what of Nannie?” 

“Why, Nannie, she’s married to Jake Conway.” 

“To Jake !” 

“Yes; he’s our preacher now. ’if yer stay over 
to-morrer yer kin have a chance ter hear him. I tell 
you he is goin’ ter be a big man some day.” 

“Well, Bob, these are surely great changes.” 

‘ ‘ They are, fur a fact ; and, by the way, you re- 
member Dill, the storekeeper ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ He war killed about a year ago on this road. He 
went ter Hanaford to live, after Mr. Sarcott broke up, 
and took ter drinkin’ hard. He fell off a train and 
war run over.” 

Our conversation was broken by the whistle of the 
train. 

“Here we are,” said Bob. 

I left the train. Bob promising to see me on the 
morrow, and took my way toward the main street of 
the village. It was already dusk, and I went to the 
house of a friend. 

It was with many feelings of wonder and sadness 


252 


THE WHITE CHURCH. 


that I took my way to the white church the next morn- 
ing. Nestling among the green trees a little to the left 
of the village, it seemed to me like a white dove that 
had flown down from heaven with a message of peace. 

The seats were all full, and in spite of his hair now 
snowy white, I recognized near the pulpit the bowed 
form of Mr. Sarcott. 

Jake had changed less than I expected. He was 
more manly in appearance though, and a curly-headed 
little woman who sat in one of the side seats seemed to 
regard him with extraordinary interest. 

I tried to listen to the sermon that fell from his lips, 
but in vain. I could not chase a multitude of intruding 
thoughts from my mind. I thought of Mr. Sarcott’s 
fortune, now vanished like mist. I thought of the 
bright hopes that had been blasted in the little village. 
I thought of Eurilda, whose mother, dressed in deep 
black, sat in the seat with Nannie. My eyes followed 
the long line of railway plainly visible from the church 
window. I thought how the project in the hands of 
Mr. Sarcott had been so utterly defeated ; then I 
thought how, in spite of all opposing forces, the little 
chapel had arisen here. The last words of the sermon 
fell distinctly on my ear. It seemed as if they had been 
framed expressly as a fitting conclusion to my own 
thoughts. I had heard nothing else but them: “The 
grass withereth, the flower fadeth : but the word of 
our God shall stand forever.” 



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